


You Don't Need to Love Me

by Goddess_of_the_Night, KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Sexual Situations, BAMF John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, John Takes Them Down, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Protective John Watson, School Reunion, Sherlock Has Bullies, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, The Holmes Parents are so Upfront about Sex, Top John Watson, Vulnerable Sherlock, Without Prior Planning, so many feelings, they ship it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: Sherlock's school reunion has come up, matched with a retirement party for one of his most influential professors. He's reluctant to go, but his good friend John finally talks him into it by agreeing to go with him for support.“Jesus, Sherlock, it’s just a picture,” John entered the fray with annoyance. Sometimes Sherlock forgot how lucky he was to still have his parents around.Sherlock’s eyes darted to his with an intense look of betrayal, “You are aware that you’re meant to be in the picture with me?”John flushed, because he hadn’t actually thought that was the case, “Why in the world would I be in the picture?”Sherlock sighed heavily, “Because, John, you are my plus one.”And like a ton of bricks falling from the sky to bury him beneath a pile of understanding, John realised what this entire evening was going to look like to outsiders. To Sherlock’s former classmates...the bullies.To the rest of the world, John is Sherlock’s date tonight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!
> 
> This took us 4-5 months to write, but it is completely done. We'll be posting a chapter a day (roughly five? But that number may change as we go) until it's all up.
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

John walked in from his shift at the surgery, pushing open the door to Baker Street and almost standing on a small pile of letters and bills which still waited on the welcome mat. Rolling his eyes at Sherlock's laziness, John picked them up and continued up the stairs to their flat, taking off his coat and toeing off his shoes as he looked over at Sherlock who was sitting silently in his chair.

“You forgot to get the post,” John grumbled, putting the letters on his chair whilst he moved to make himself tea, subconsciously moving to make Sherlock one, too.

“Mrs. Hudson normally brings it up,” Sherlock responded, his voice deep from lack of use. Obviously he had spent the entire day sitting around in his mind palace in silence.

“She's away at her sister’s, we talked about this,” John sighed, making the tea and returning to his chair where he handed Sherlock his cup and then began to sort through the mail. “Oh, there's one here for you.”

“Dull,” Sherlock complained, taking a sip of his tea and putting it aside, “It's probably another of those tedious fan letters.”

“Yeah, maybe...” John frowned, realising that it looked far posher than the ones they normally received from their fans. Opening the letter quickly, John blinked and skimmed the words before clearing his throat, “It's from St. Benedict’s school. For you.”

If John didn't know Sherlock as well as he did, he would not have noticed the tightening of his muscles and the fight to keep his face impassive, “Dull,” he repeated.

“There's a school reunion,” John continued, reading out a little part, “combined with a surprise retirement party for a Professor Ellis.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John, his mouth opening before shutting, “I don't know him.”

“It says here that you did. He taught science,” John responded, narrowing his eyes, “Is there any reason you don't want to go?”

“I've told you, I don't know him! I have no knowledge of a Professor Ellis, nor am I interested in returning to the school of my boyhood. It was a boring and uneventful period of my life that I have managed to ignore due to its tedium. Now, kindly forget it.”

John blinked at Sherlock's quick refusal but nodded, “Okay, that's fine; I'll just leave it on the mantle if you want to look at it. It's not for another two months anyway, so you have plenty of time to try and remember.”

“I'm sure I won't,” Sherlock huffed, taking his tea and strolling into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John simply sat staring at the empty hallway - at the closed door - for far longer than he probably realised. Something about Sherlock’s behavior had his sense of curiosity nearly bursting with unanswered questions. He sighed heavily, drinking his now-cold tea with a grimace before placing it off to the side.

What in the world could cause Sherlock to lie to him like that? John has had countless occasions throughout the years to watch Sherlock come across information that he had deleted (like the solar system) to make space for “more important” things (like 243 types of tobacco ash), and this hadn’t been like that at all. This was a lie. This was acting. This was _repression._ John was resolved to figure out why.

Sherlock, once in his room, placed his tea on his bedside table and fell face-first onto his bed. He groaned lowly, but was careful to keep it quiet so that John didn’t hear. That invitation was an abomination, and all of his carefully repressed memories from that point in his life were quickly flooding back in.

Because John was right (for once); Sherlock had not forgotten any of it at all.

He closed his eyes against the memories of fists flying at his face, his stomach, his groin, but it did no good since it was his mind playing the images on the backs of his eyelids for him to see. He attempted in vain to not hear the taunts, the laughter at his expense, coming from his classmates. His mother had tried to tell him that they were just jealous of his intellect and didn’t know how to properly express it. Sherlock was convinced they were simply a bunch of arseholes.

With a heavy sigh of his own, he finally turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, remembering Professor Ellis. The older man’s kindness was all that got Sherlock through that blasted school, honestly, and now he was retiring?

What was Sherlock going to do?

* * *

The case had not helped the underlying emotion in Sherlock’s mind. A young boy had been bullied at school, tortured almost with accusations of his sexuality and personal failures which had led him to kill himself. The death itself was standard, but the scene was set up to look like a murder with various clues pointing towards his bullies. Sherlock had worked the case alongside John, shouting and raving deductions at the police as he whirled his way through the scene and interviewed the young men and women who had led an innocent boy to take his own life. At one point, John considered pulling Sherlock away from the interview room as he softly told a young, popular boy and his mother the intricacies of the case, showing him photos of the young victim’s swollen face in death until the young boy vomited and his mother fainted.

When the case was over, Sherlock was subdued and extremely quiet. He entered Baker Street and toed off his shoes, hanging up his coat and heading for the kitchen and the bottle of scotch they kept behind the microwave. Sherlock never drank, preferring other intoxicants, but he sat at the kitchen table and poured himself two fingers, throwing it back and then adding a second.

John followed Sherlock into the kitchen and sat opposite him, silently watching for a moment before speaking, “What’s going on in your head? Talk to me.”

Sherlock looked away, staring at the fridge for a moment before twirling the glass in his hand slowly, “That -- the victim, it could have been me. If I wasn’t stronger -- if I didn’t have…” he winced as though he didn’t want to admit it, “if I didn’t have my brother. I could have ended it the same way.”

Feeling a curl of anguish in his stomach, John leaned over to touch Sherlock’s hand, “What happened?”

Sherlock looked up at John, shaking his head and then inhaling, “I was an odd child. My parents were -- well, you’ve met them. They’re good people, but we were isolated in the family estate. For the first years of my life I was home-schooled by my private tutor along with Mycroft. We learned Latin and Greek and we were allowed to follow our passions. Mine was science, Mycroft’s was law and politics, but once we reached the age of 11, our parents insisted that we attend a local school. Obviously it was private, expensive in fees, but good for education and social standing.”

“Right…” John replied, wondering what Sherlock would think about his school’s run-down building and terrible exam results record.

“Anyway, I was excited at first. I wanted to attend the school so I could have access to the laboratories there. My parents wouldn’t let me have a full-sized one due to an incident with a crab and some solvents…but once I got there I realised my mistake. The children were horrible. Vulgar and crass, they made constant barbs about my sexuality and mannerisms, claiming I was a faggot because of my hair style and how I wore my tie. Ridiculous,” Sherlock gestured angrily, “but…Professor Ellis was there to support me.”

“The guy who is retiring?” John said, flicking his eyes to the mantle.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “he was -- kind to me. When he found out that I was eating my lunch in the toilets to save myself from having to fight, he said I could sit with him in the science labs. We had in-depth conversations about scientific methods, disproving some and just generally enjoying one another’s intelligent company. He was too good for that school; he was an Oxford educated professor, you know.”

“He sounds nice,” John smiled warmly.

“He was. Actually, my first published work was done alongside Professor Ellis. We worked on a paper together documenting the effects of enzymes on the -- you’re not interested in that part. It’s dull and tedious and was discounted a few years later. By me,” Sherlock chuckled, “Professor Ellis sent me a card of congratulation for that and we stayed in touch. He’s a good man.”

“So you should go to his retirement,” John insisted, “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

“John…I can’t,” Sherlock sighed, “I can’t go back there, not after the -- torment. I don’t want to see those same people who made my life hell.”

“But you’re different now; you’re successful and famous and respected across the country, even the world. You could show off!” John hinted, knowing how much Sherlock loved to show off.

“No. No I -- I don’t think it’s for me,” Sherlock said in a hurry, taking another sip of his alcohol with a wince.

“What about if I came along, too? Moral support and backup?” John asked, “And if any of them say anything, I’ll shoot them in the knee.”

Smiling shakily, Sherlock looked up at his friend with a soft blush on his cheeks, “Really? You would do that?”

“Of course! Yeah…I don’t want you to miss out on this and it’s an excuse to get out of the flat for a bit. Go somewhere different,” John smiled, “Shall I RSVP for us both?”

Glugging his scotch, Sherlock nodded quickly and stood up, swooping into his bedroom and closing the door once more, leaving John feeling helpless and saddened in the kitchen. He had thought getting Sherlock to agree to go would lift some stress from both of their shoulders, but he had been wrong. He went to his own bedroom with a heavy heart, remembering his new-found knowledge of Sherlock’s past.

* * *

"What exactly happens at these reunion things?” Sherlock asked rather abruptly the following afternoon, apropos of nothing while working at his microscope.

John looked up from the paper and turned his head to the left to see his friend, “I’m not really sure,” he admitted.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and towards his friend on the sofa in an accusatory manner, “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re supposed to help me through this!”

John rolled his eyes in exasperation, paper falling to his lap as he sighed heavily, “I _will_ help you through this, but I never said I had personal experience.”

Sherlock’s eyes moved rapidly back and forth as he deduced, finally finding the answer, “Afghanistan,” he said in understanding, not even a question.

John nodded and hummed in agreement, “The Army in general, really; I was gone for all of them, either training or fighting.”

“Would you have gone, if you had the chance?” He asked as he turned on the stool to face John instead of the table.

John tilted his head to the right as he considered, “I think so? I don’t have any reasons to avoid them.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed bitterly, “you were the popular rugby player whom all the girls wanted to shag and all the boys wanted to emulate.”

“Well that’s not fair; some of the boys wanted to shag me, too.” John joked lightly, mostly to savor the blush it put onto Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Crass,” Sherlock accused before turning back to his microscope, pretending to go back to his experiment.

John simply chuckled and turned back around himself, lifting his paper to keep reading.

* * *

“Should I take a gift?” Sherlock asked a few days later, obviously clicking around the internet in boredom, “For Professor Ellis?”

“I’m not sure. I assume the faculty will be arranging a gift, but if you wanted to take something, then you could?” John answered, giving a half shrug.

“What does one buy a retiring person? A watering can? A set of soup spoons?” Sherlock huffed and folded his arms.

“Well, what sorts of things does he like? Or did he like when you spent time with him?” John responded casually.

“Golf,” Sherlock shrugged, “Molecular biology and golf.”

“Well, get him something golf-related then. That will be nice,” John answered with a smile, “it’ll be a nice gesture.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, not really paying attention anymore.

John started to pack the night before their trip, folding his clothes carefully and placing them into his overnight bag along with his toiletries and a book just in case they retired early. The suit that Sherlock had insisted on buying him hung on the wardrobe and John cast his eye over it. It was obviously expensive, a designer that John had never heard of but who had his very own boutique on a fancy street in Central London. John had stood nervously whilst a short Italian man took his measurements and hummed something to himself in his own language when he measured John’s inside leg. John was sure he heard Sherlock chuckling but he immediately pushed the thought away as he was given swatches of fabric to chose from. Deciding on a blue pinstripe suit with a colourful inside and a white shirt, Sherlock had paid with a flamboyant swipe of his debit card and they were told to collect it in a fortnight.

The suit was perfect - better than any John had ever owned in the past - and it made him feel like royalty when he slipped it on and modelled it for Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson in the living room.

Now, packing everything away, John wondered how he would look standing next to Sherlock, both in their suits and dressed to the nines. He hoped that he wouldn’t let Sherlock down or make him a target for more bullies. The thought of Sherlock being bullied made John’s insides clench and a flare of anger burn up his spine. Sherlock didn’t deserve to be bullied - though he did occasionally deserve a slap - but the thought of anyone physically touching Sherlock made John want to vomit.

Pushing the thoughts away, John finished his packing and carried the bags downstairs, knocking on Sherlock’s door, “Sherlock? Are you packed? Do you need a hand?”

“No,” Sherlock’s voice boomed through the door, “I’m fine, perfectly capable of packing for myself, thank you very much.”

“Alright, you arse,” John huffed, walking to make a coffee, “You better have an early night tonight. It’s an early start in the morning.”

In his room, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at an old picture in his hands. It’s of his graduation from the hellish school he’s meant to be revisiting, standing next to Professor Ellis. The older teacher standing with his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, smiling with genuine pride, as Sherlock stands there trying not to look too pleased with himself. It’s the only physical evidence he has of how relieved they both were to get Sherlock through that school without anyone coming to (too much) physical harm.

With a deep, shaky inhalation, Sherlock came out of his head with purpose. He set the picture aside on his bed before picking up the gift he had finally chosen: a red notebook with orange and yellow microbe designs littering both front and back. Inside, the pages were gridded on the left and lined on the right; perfect for notating discoveries, both pictorially and descriptively.

Symbolic but useful. And not nearly enough.

He had debated getting him a DNA necktie (in the event that he continues to guest lecture after retirement) or a stupid molecular-themed coffee mug (“Yet another year older...and still just as twisted!” with a double helix), but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Besides, his well-meaning family members have probably gotten him the gamut of the available options as gifts over the years.

He opened the notebook to the first page and re-read his note. His scientific side had hated to waste the paper, but he felt it better than including a card that would most likely get lost or thrown away.

_Prof. Ellis,_

_Congratulations on your retirement. I have no idea how you put up with the imbecilic and unmotivated youth of England for so long. You deserve much more than some silly notebook for it - like a medal or a knightship. I’ll see what my brother can do for you._

_I think we are both aware that I would not have made it through my time at St. Benedict’s without your assistance. I have thanked you, but I have never done so properly. I’m honestly not sure what that even means; what is enough?_

_Regardless, know that I am still eternally grateful for all of your help throughout the years. I know I am not the only one. You are a great man, and I wish you all the best in your continued endeavors._

_Most Sincerely,  
Sherlock Holmes_

With a heavy sigh, he closed the book and laid it atop the piles of items in his packed bag; his formal suits hung in their garment bag on the wardrobe, ready to be whisked away tomorrow morning. They would be heading to his parents’ house tomorrow, with the reunion taking place the following evening. He felt both grateful and fearful for John coming with him; the support is appreciated, but he didn’t want John to bear witness to any bullying that may yet come his way from his former peers. It’s not that he thinks John will believe their tales or take their side, but...it just seems humiliating. He truly cares for John, deeply - could possibly even love him - and he couldn’t stand it if he lost his favor.

With a shake of his head, Sherlock moved his bag to the floor before crawling into bed, a restless night’s sleep surely ahead of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John felt a blaze of anger going through him as he looked at Sherlock looking broken and dejected, “I heard a little about it. Sherlock said it was bad...”
> 
> “Quite,” Mr. Holmes said sadly, “I often had to attend the school. Pick Sherlock up with a bloodied nose or split lip. Or after having food tipped over him. He was in a dreadful state, but we told him: you have to stay there, otherwise they'll win. They'll think what they said was true.”
> 
> “And you have done quite well for yourself now, my love,” Mrs. Holmes soothed, “Consulting Detective, on the telly and in the papers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief description of bullying here. Poor Sherlock, but at least he has John now.

John grumbled unhappily as the alarm beeped loudly in his left ear. Slapping his hand over the pesky device, John sat up and rubbed at his face tiredly, giving a dramatic yawn as he pulled the covers back and pottered to the bathroom for his morning routine.

Once he was showered and shaved, John knocked on the adjoining door to Sherlock's bedroom, pushing it open and stepping into the dark room, made darker by the black-out curtains.

“Hey, it's time to wake up,” John hummed, carefully nudging Sherlock, “So wake up.”

“No,” Sherlock said grumpily, pulling the cover over his head.

“Yes. There will be coffee and eggs on the table in ten minutes. Make sure you're ready,” John threatened as he left the room, leaving the bedroom door open spitefully as he clicked on the radio in the kitchen, knowing how much Sherlock hated the music on the station which John preferred whilst he was cleaning or cooking.

It didn't take long for John to have breakfast ready. He was midway through the chorus of 'I will always love you' when Sherlock came into the kitchen and clicked off the radio.

“I was listening to that,” John complained with a scowl.

“No you weren't; you were drowning it out with your caterwauling,” Sherlock grumbled as he took his seat at the table and sipped his coffee.

“You're perky this morning,” John replied, eating his food and looking over at his friend, “Worried about the reunion?”

“No,” Sherlock lied, “it's fine. It's just a lot of idiots I once knew. Why would I be worried?”

“It's okay to be nervous, you know,” John replied, tilting his head, “It's totally understandable.”

“Do you have the papers?” Sherlock asked, putting an end to the conversation.

* * *

The journey to the Holmes Manor had passed in a blur of grey as they went through London, and then leading to green as they left the city. John relaxed in the large saloon car alternating looking out of the window and checking his facebook before finally nudging Sherlock, who had been silent thus far.

“Everything alright?” John asked.

“Yes. Stop asking,” Sherlock grumbled.

John huffed, rolling his eyes and settling back in the seat. The rest of the journey was tense with an awkward silence until the car rolled around a small bend in the road and onto a private, winding driveway.

“Fuck me,” John breathed, looking out of the window at the large stately home, “Is this your house?”

“No. This is Mummy’s house,” Sherlock responded, but John could see the strain slowly building once more.

“But you lived here? As a child?” John continued to ask, seeming to be stunned at the sheer size. It looked like something from an old documentary he had watched about royalty.

“I had lodgings,” Sherlock answered, avoiding the topic before giving the briefest smile when he saw his mother, who had come to greet the car. John looked over at the woman, a short, stout, but kind looking woman with a bob of silver hair and the sparkling eyes of a mother excited to see her youngest child after a long absence.

“Mummy will ask questions. Be as vague as possible,” Sherlock warned, turning to look at John, “And don’t ask questions about my childhood, as she will insist on getting the photo albums out.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” John asked, but was immediately stopped by the warning glare which Sherlock sent his way, “Okay, no baby pictures.”

“My darling!” Mrs. Holmes cooed, throwing her arms wide open and grabbing Sherlock into a tight and unavoidable hug. John watched with a warmth in his chest as Sherlock returned the hug, resting his chin on his mother’s head, “I’ve missed you, my darling boy! Your father is in the rose gardens, he wouldn’t move until he removed all of the pesky greenflies,” she tutted and rolled her eyes, “You know how he gets.”

Sherlock pulled back, stepping to one side and gesturing to John, “Mummy, this is John Watson.”

“I know, silly boy,” she tutted, walking to engulf John in a motherly hug that momentarily had John remembering his own mother, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

“Please, call me John,” John smiled, “Thank you for allowing us to stay.”

“Oh pish and nonsense!” Mrs. Holmes chuckled, “Couldn’t miss the opportunity to see my boy. He hardly ever visits you know, John.”

“I’ve heard,” John replied, turning to pick up their bags only to see them already disappearing into the house with the staff.

“Come on inside, I’m sure you have a lot to tell us!” Mrs. Holmes tittered, grinning widely, obviously ecstatic that her youngest son was home.

* * *

A few hours later saw John full to the brim of heavenly homecooked food, and amazing scotch which Mr. Holmes had insisted on pouring for them. Sherlock was curled up on the small sofa, his toes buried under Mrs. Holmes’ legs as he read through her most recent thesis, making soft humming noises of agreement which made his mother smile.

“So, John…” Mr. Holmes began, taking a seat in his overstuffed armchair, “We have refreshed the room which used to be Mycroft’s. He doesn’t use it anymore and it’s basically a guest room. We just didn’t want to open the guest wing…it’s an awful lot of effort, you see.”

“No, absolutely not. Not sure what I would have done with my own wing anyway,” John chuckled, “I’m sure Mycroft’s room will be fine.”

“They replaced the mattress,” Sherlock spoke, looking over the top of the documents he was reading, “after they found him in the middle of doing unspeakable acts with the gardener’s son.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Holmes hissed, but her eyes sparkled as she tapped him on the shoulder, “You shouldn’t have known about that! You were only ten!”

“Still old enough to understand why Mycroft was walking with an oddly wonky gait and wincing whenever he sat,” Sherlock mumbled, smirking at John.

“You are an utter terror, Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs. Holmes mumbled, “I often wonder if you were found in a hedge. You’re no child of mine,” she teased playfully.

“It’s only Mycroft. He doesn’t count,” Sherlock waved away, “I think the mortified shame of mummy walking in on him in such an -- _intimate_ position has stopped him dating ever since.”

“No, he is dating,” Mr. Holmes answered, “He’s bringing him up to meet us next month when they get time off. He says that his boyfriend is extremely busy. High profile job, from what I hear…”

“Who?” Sherlock shuddered, “Who would lower themselves to sleeping with that bag of arseholes?”

“Sherlock!” John barked, hiding a smile.

“Oh…oh what was his name, dear?” Mr. Holmes asked, tapping his chin, “Graham…or Gareth…”

“Gregory, dear,” Sherlock’s mum replied, “Gregory Lestat.”

“Sounds dull,” Sherlock hummed, noticing that John had gone silent and slightly pale, “John? Whatever is the matter?”

“Are you sure it was Lestat?” John asked, feeling a flutter in his stomach. Sherlock was going to overreact if he was correct in his assumption.

“What else could it be?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Lestrade?” John winced, “Gregory Lestrade. He’s a detective Insp--”

“Inspector!” Mrs. Holmes interrupted, “That’s the one. Lestat, dear me. That was the vampire wasn’t it?”

“Le...Lestrade?” Sherlock blinked roughly, before baulking and glaring at John as though it was his fault, “Lestrade?!”

“They've been friends a while,” John answered, “Although Greg hasn't told me in person, he did hint that he was seeing someone...”

“I feel like I might vomit,” Sherlock gagged, “Lestrade is allowing himself to be – defiled by my oaf of a brother. I thought he had sense…I thought he at least had _taste_!”

“Sherlock, that's not very nice,” Mrs Holmes tutted, “he's been a good brother to you.”

“He's been a pain in my bottom for as long as I can remember,” Sherlock answered, lip pouting and arms folded.

“You used to follow him around the gardens, your chubby little legs trying to keep up with him. It was adorable,” Mr. Holmes commented, looking off wistfully, “Mycroft was obsessed with Robin Hood before Sherlock was born; refused to take off his tights even for bed. When Sherlock was born, however, Mycroft allowed Sherlock to join in. We have photos somewhere...”

“No, that won't be necessary, will it, John?” Sherlock glared as his father stood up, moving to the large bureau in the corner.

“No. No it's – er...” John said, not wanting to be a bad guest as he looked at Sherlock pleadingly, “I don't want to be a nuisance.”

“Not at all!” Mr. Holmes scoffed, pulling out the albums and moving to John's side on the other sofa. After sitting down, the older Holmes began pulling out photos and smiling, handing a few to John, “Oh look, there he is in the orchard! He was picking apples with Mrs. Henson, can you remember?”

“No,” Sherlock sulked, watching as his mother rolled her eyes.

“Ah, this is the one,” Mr. Holmes said as he pulled out a larger, colour photo. It showed a small, slightly chubby ginger-haired boy in a full Robin Hood costume and pretend bow and arrow. John estimated that Mycroft was around ten, perhaps a little younger, but it was Sherlock who drew his eye. The toddler was standing behind Mycroft, his face split in a giant gummy smile whilst dark curls tumbled over his face. Sherlock was adorable, but his costume made him look even cuter. A flower garland around his hair, and a long green tunic fashioned into a dress.

“You were...” John smiled, grinning at Sherlock.

“Maid Marion. Yes,” Sherlock answered moodily, “ _She_ insisted,” he said pointing at his mother, “Although I should have known; cross dressing runs in her family.”

Mrs. Holmes tapped Sherlock on the hip and tutted, “Uncle Rudy was a lovely man. He always bought you thoughtful gifts.”

“He did make a rather elegant rocking horse,” Sherlock begrudgingly admitted before waving his hands, “Enough! Enough of this.”

“Oh and this one,” Mr. Holmes cooed, “Sherlock in the paddling pool.”

“Father!” Sherlock shouted, outraged and scandalised.

“What? Oh stop over reacting! John is a doctor, he's seen it all before. And a soldier. I remember my national service…ahh, those boys never did stop getting naked,” Mr. Holmes sighed, “He's probably seen countless male bottoms, so I don't think John will be traumatised by this.”

“I hate you,” Sherlock mumbled, although John wasn't sure if Sherlock was aiming that at his father, or John himself.

“This is one of my favourites,” Mr. Holmes smiled, running a finger across the school portrait. Sherlock's features were obvious, although his hair was far more auburn than it currently was today, “Sherlock's first day at Saint Benedict's.”

John looked over at the photo and smiled; Sherlock looked so young and innocent, his puppy fat cheeks colourful and healthy. The uniform that John could see in the picture looked expensive, obviously a private school.

“Oh, is this where we're going for the reunion?” John asked, watching as Sherlock nodded in silence.

“He had a dreadful time of it there,” Mrs. Holmes answered sadly, “Terrible children. Awful. Almost feral, I would say.”

“That one boy, what was his name?” Mr. Holmes replied, tapping his chin, “Jones? Ronald Jones!”

“Ronald James,” Sherlock corrected.

“Yes, him. Awful boy. I wish I could have given him a good punch up the bracket!” Mr. Holmes complained, “The way he used to talk about our Lockie, calling him all sorts of names and making accusations. They said he was gay, you know, John. Like that was an insult!”

“It was in the 90's,” Sherlock said, his voice low and obviously upset, “AIDS and HIV.”

“You were a little boy! You didn't know anything of that life…well...except what Mycroft was found doing. But I don't even think you understood it. You were so innocent,” Mrs. Holmes said, stroking a hand through Sherlock's curls, her eyes going soft.

John felt a blaze of anger going through him as he looked at Sherlock looking broken and dejected, “I heard a little about it. Sherlock said it was bad...”

“Quite,” Mr. Holmes said sadly, “I often had to attend the school. Pick Sherlock up with a bloodied nose or split lip. Or after having food tipped over him. He was in a dreadful state, but we told him: you have to stay there, otherwise they'll win. They'll think what they said was true.”

“And you have done quite well for yourself now, my love,” Mrs. Holmes soothed, “Consulting Detective, on the telly and in the papers.”

“Which reminds me,” Mr. Holmes said as he reached down to another album, pulling it open and showing John a collection of newspaper cuttings and photographs put into one album. Sherlock and John were in each photo, sometimes with Greg, other times by themselves. Sherlock sometimes was wearing his silly hat but John noticed that in every photo, it seemed that John was staring up adoringly at his friend.

“That's lovely,” John said, allowing Mr. Holmes to put the albums away before they changed the topic of conversation.

* * *

Sherlock was lying on his bed, attempting to read when the soft knock came on his bedroom door. Checking he was decent, Sherlock called out permission to enter and smiled when John stood awkwardly in the doorway, wrapped in his dressing gown and pyjamas.

“Hey,” John said, “can I come in?”

“Yes,” Sherlock hummed, sitting up against the headboard, “Is the room comfortable?”

“It's bigger than our flat,” John joked, nodding, “It's fine, yeah, thanks.”

“Good...” Sherlock trailed off, not entirely sure what John wanted, “So, er...”

“I'm sorry about the photos,” John said rapidly, closing the door behind him and moving to the edge of Sherlock's bed, “I didn't want to look rude in front of your parents and…I was a bit curious. You always seem like you were born at 30; I couldn't imagine you as a kid.”

“Boringly human,” Sherlock responded, rolling his eyes, “but it’s fine; I know you weren't being malicious.”

John crossed his legs, fussing with the fraying edges of his robe as he considered his words, “It was really that bad?”

“It really was,” Sherlock admitted with a small, sad sigh.

“Point out Ronald James,” John insisted, his Captain voice firmly in place, “I’d like to have a word.”

“John, it's been twenty years. He's probably forgotten all about it,” Sherlock grumbled, refusing to meet John's eyes.

“Well, get some sleep. It'll be a long day tomorrow,” John smiled, reaching over to squeeze Sherlock's hand, “You know where I am if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock asked, puzzled; he was back in his family home, safe and content with his stomach filled and his adoring parents not far away.

“Well…just incase,” John shrugged, but for a brief moment there was an emotion in John's face that Sherlock couldn't place. It was gone as quickly as it arrived and John stood as he moved back to the door, “Night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faintly - but not too - the pair in the kitchen could hear Mrs. Holmes’ voice shouting to Sherlock.
> 
> “You will not sleep the day away when we’ll barely get to see you for it!”
> 
> In response came a slightly more muffled, but still loud, “John lets me sleep as long as I want!”
> 
> “Well, you’re not under John’s roof at the moment, are you? You are under mine, and I say it’s time for lunch, so get up!”
> 
> John’s cheeks went scarlet at the conversation, but Mr. Holmes looked incredibly pleased.
> 
> “Fine!” Came one last shouted reply from Sherlock before she returned to the kitchen looking pleased with herself.
> 
> “You spoil him too much,” were her first words upon sitting down.
> 
> “Me?” John clarified in shock. How the hell would he spoil Sherlock?
> 
> “Yes, you,” she mock-glared, “letting him sleep until all hours of the day!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're thinking of surprising you with two chapters today!

John awoke the next morning feeling well rested. With a suite that was larger and more lavish than 221B, not to mention a bed that put any other he had ever slept in to shame, it was practically impossible not to. He showered (a bit more leisurely than typical) in his private en suite bathroom, drying off with the fluffiest towel that mankind has ever created. It was like being at an extravagant hotel, only with better company.

John chuckled quietly to himself: the Holmes’ as fantastic company. Who would have thought?

He dressed in jeans and a plaid button up for the start of the day. The reunion wouldn’t start until 3:00pm (and end at 10:00, making for an excruciating seven hour ordeal), for which occasion he had brought a suit.

He headed downstairs towards the kitchen, hoping to find at least one of the elder Holmes’ awake for some coffee. For his good thoughts, he was rewarded with both parents sitting and chatting at the table. Well, Mr. Holmes was chatting at Mrs. Holmes who was in turn reading the paper and seeming to ignore him. It was an oddly familiar scene.

“Morning,” John greeted with a smile as he headed towards the table to join them.

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Holmes lowered her paper to grin at him before moving to stand up, “Would you like some coffee and a muffin?”

“That sounds lovely, but I can get it,” he offered, gesturing towards the counter where a fresh tray of probably still-warm muffins sat.

“Pish,” Mrs. Holmes scolded with a downward hand gesture which John took to mean that he should sit down. He did so.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Mr. Holmes asked him from directly across the table, lifting his own cup to his lips.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever slept better,” he admitted, to which Mr. Holmes attempted to hide his pleased smile behind his cup. It’s a quintessential Sherlockian move, and a part of John warmed at the sight.

Mrs. Holmes placed a cup and plate in front of John before moving back to her seat to his left, at the head of the table.

“I hope blueberry is alright with you; they’re Sherlock’s favorite,” she informed him.

He nodded before taking a cautious sip of his coffee, “Mmm, it’s perfect.”

Mrs. Holmes looked completely smug at the praise, sitting a little straighter as she moved to lift the paper again.

“So, what’s going on in the world today?” John asked, gesturing towards the paper.

The trio spent the next few hours discussing the paper, recent world events, John’s job, if Sherlock’s being safe, and other such business before Mrs. Holmes tutted about it being nearly lunch time already and Sherlock  _ still  _ not being up.

John thought it was a great thing that Sherlock was able to sleep this late - the man hadn’t slept well the past few nights - but Mrs. Holmes clearly didn’t agree with his silent assessment as she rose from the table with resolve.

As she walked upstairs with purpose, John looked back to Mr. Holmes with raised eyebrows, “What…?”

Mr. Holmes merely shook his head, raising his right index finger, and said, “Just wait.”

Faintly - but not too - the pair in the kitchen could hear Mrs. Holmes’ voice shouting to Sherlock.

“You will  _ not  _ sleep the day away when we’ll barely get to see you for it!”

In response came a slightly more muffled, but still loud, “John lets me sleep as long as I want!”

“Well, you’re not under John’s roof at the moment, are you? You are under mine, and I say it’s time for lunch, so get up!”

John’s cheeks went scarlet at the conversation, but Mr. Holmes looked incredibly pleased.

“Fine!” Came one last shouted reply from Sherlock before she returned to the kitchen looking pleased with herself.

“You spoil him too much,” were her first words upon sitting down.

“Me?” John clarified in shock. How the  _ hell  _ would he  _ spoil  _ Sherlock?

“Yes, you,” she mock-glared, “letting him sleep until all hours of the day!”

“In my defense, he rarely sleeps at all, and as his doctor I’m just glad for the rest he  _ does  _ get, whenever it may be.”

“He still refuses to go to the doctor or hospital, does he?” Mr. Holmes smiled knowingly.

John sighed heavily, shaking his head in bemusement, “You know your son.”

“And now they’ve turned even you against me,” Sherlock grumbled as he strode into the room, perfectly dressed within mere minutes of waking, “Is there no justice in this world?”

Sherlock smoothly poured himself a coffee and grabbed a muffin on the way to his seat to John’s right, falling gracefully onto the wood.

“Always with a flair for the dramatic,” Mrs. Holmes tutted with obvious affection.

“I learned from the best,” Sherlock bowed his head in gratitude, as though he had just been praised.

“Why don’t you take John for a walk around town until lunch?” Mr. Holmes suggested with a not-quite-innocent smile.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asked with honest curiosity, eating more of his muffin.

“Because your mother and I need to get lunch ready, and you know that you’ll just rile her up to the point that we’ll miss the meal completely if you stay in here while we do.”

“I don’t see how that’s  _ my  _ problem,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Actually, that sounds rather nice,” John said to both Sherlock and his father, “I’ve never been to this area, and you can show me all the spots you got into trouble in,” he continued directly to Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed him with a look John couldn’t place before warily agreeing, “Fine, but I got into most of my trouble in this house.”

“Which you’re being kicked out of,” Mr. Holmes stated, “for a bit,” he amended.

After a pursing of his lips, Sherlock shoved the remaining half of the muffin in his mouth before downing the rest of his coffee in one gulp, “Come along then, John,” he stated coldly as he rose as gracefully from the chair as he had sat in it.

John looked between Sherlock’s parents and the retreating back of his friend, “Right, well...I’ll just…” he trailed off, pointing towards Sherlock as he rose to follow before he lost sight of the git.

The men rode into the town proper, parking in the middle of town before taking off on foot.

Sherlock hadn’t spent much time exploring the village as a kid, especially once Mycroft had left for Uni. He hated to be outside, and with hardly any friends at school, there was no one to be out  _ with _ . But, he must admit, it was a beautiful - if quaint - little town.

“I used to come here often,” Sherlock said of a church during the tour.

“You went to church?” John asked incredulously. Religion was a topic they never seemed to broach, but John had always just assumed Sherlock wasn’t into that sort of thing.

“What? No,” Sherlock scoffed and looked at John like he was an idiot, “There are some rare plants in the cemetery around back, mostly undisturbed due to it being a cemetery and all. Superstitions. Stupid.”

“You know, I had my first kiss outside of a church,” John responded. It felt like a fine idea at the time, but after the words had left his mouth, he realised how awkward they sounded.

“What?” Sherlock asked with a shake of his head, caught off guard.

“After church one day...me and Melissa Stratton were avoiding our parents.”

“Must we relive this?” Sherlock sighed in agitation.

“Fine, where was  _ your  _ first kiss. Show me there,” John challenged, arms crossing over his chest.

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed slightly as he looked at the ground, “Impossible. It’s not around here.”

John looked perplexed, “What? Like, you were on holiday or something?”

“You really think, in a school where I was being constantly bullied for being gay, that I experienced my first kiss somewhere in this wretched town?” Sherlock fumed, embarrassed at his own history.

“No, I...shit, Sherlock, I didn’t think about that,” John admitted sheepishly, “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s  _ not  _ fine,” John spat, angry at himself for forgetting. He was supposed to be here to help Sherlock through being near those people again, and he couldn’t even remember what they’d done to him? “I’ll remember this evening. I have your back, no matter what,” he promised.

Sherlock looked at him in a funny way that John couldn’t identify again before responding, “I know.”

John cleared his throat and started walking away from the church, “So, when  _ was  _ your first kiss?”

“Uni,” Sherlock admitted sheepishly, “when I could finally be more of myself with a fresh slate.”

“And who were they?”

“Blake Silvers. He was two years older than me and extremely confident in who he was. It never really became anything more than a few kisses, but he was the one to really help me accept that being gay wasn’t this bad thing that my classmates had been telling me for years.”

Along with religion, Sherlock’s sexuality was another topic off the table of discussion since their first night together, and John had never really been certain  _ what  _ it was. Not that it mattered.

“I’m...really glad you had that,” John told him with utter sincerity.

“You’re not…” Sherlock paused to clear his throat, “ _ disturbed  _ by the revelation?” He asked meekly.

John stopped walking to turn towards Sherlock, a look of shocked disappointment on his face, “Do you think that little of me? That something so mundane as which gender you prefer would  _ disturb me _ ?”

After looks of shock and indignation crossed over his sharp features, Sherlock began laughing.

“What the hell is so funny?” John asked, not being able to help a small smile of his own at the sight and sound.

Sherlock laughed for a few more moments before he could regain his composure enough to speak, “You just described one of the most tortured parts of my past, my biggest insecurity, as ‘mundane’,” he explained, still smiling wide.

John’s stomach dropped. He had been an inadvertent arse about Sherlock’s past again, “I didn’t mean…” he tried to explain, but Sherlock quieted him by simply stepping forward slightly, grin still in place.

“No, it’s good,” Sherlock assured him, eyes glistening with relief, awe, and a few tears, “You’ve just proven to me how far my life has come. Thank you,” he said sincerely.

They held each other’s gazes for a few moments longer before returning to high street, window shopping at the various trinket shops. John stared at a shop dedicated entirely to knitting and wool, wondering how they could possibly maintain a business in the current economic climate. Sherlock rolled his eyes, “The average age in this village is approximately 300. All they do is knit,” he said sarcastically as he followed John through the street, stopping at a local confectioners to purchase a gift for Mrs. Hudson.

The journey back to the Holmes Manor was calm and relaxed, filled with friendly chatter and occasional near-misses of sheep in the road. John felt himself relaxing into the atmosphere, wondering if perhaps it would be a perfect area for both men to retire someday. Immediately after this thought, John wondered why he assumed Sherlock and he would remain flatmates until their elderly years. He decided not to dig too deeply into the thought.

* * *

Lunch passed quickly: homemade quiche and thick, perfectly fluffy chips that had John eyeing up a second portion before he was even finished with his first. Sherlock ate heartily, stuffing the food into his face in between discussions with his parents on all sorts of topics.

Eventually, however, it was time for both men to prepare for the reunion. John watched as Sherlock steadily became more tense, anxious, and terse as he snapped at his parents and John. Both parents took it in stride, allowing Sherlock to vent before the detective stormed off for a shower.

“John?” Mr. Holmes called out, drawing John over to him before he could make his own way upstairs, “I – Well…that is…just – look after him. Tonight, I mean.”

“Of course,” John promised, “I agreed so that I could support him through this.”

“He probably won't...” Mr. Holmes trailed off and looked over his shoulder, ensuring that both Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock were nowhere to be seen, “The bullies, they used to say things…things about him being alone forever and that he would die alone. He would never admit it, but those are the things that affected him the most.”

John inhaled before sighing, “He won't die alone. He'll probably die with me, actually; I'm not going anywhere.”

Mr. Holmes’ smile was small and knowing, “He cares a lot for you.”

“I care a lot about him, too,” John replied, “I better go get ready…but I'll take care of him.”

“I know you will,” Mr. Holmes smiled and nodded, “I know.”

* * *

John showered rapidly, scrubbing his hair and shaving his beard clean before adding drops of the moisturising lotion which he had borrowed from Sherlock. It was heady and intensely intimate to smell Sherlock's scent so close to him, but John rubbed it into his neck and cheeks before styling his hair without thinking on it too much. Allowing it to grow longer had been a risk, especially with Sherlock asking him “Are you attempting to go undercover as a homeless person?” once, but John preferred it slightly longer, especially as he styled it into an attractive wave which showed off the strands of grey more favourably. Finishing up, John sprayed himself with cologne and left the bathroom into his bedroom, looking at the garment bag which hung from the wardrobe.

Unzipping it had revealed a different suit to the one he had purchased with Sherlock. Instead of a blue pinstripe, this suit was a beautifully cut navy number. John ran his fingers over the fabric and enjoyed the softness before he walked across the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom. Knocking rapidly, John pushed open the door and stepped inside, realising too late that he was dressed in only a towel around his waist.

Sherlock's eyes were drawn to John's shoulder before glancing across his entire body. John wasn't known to enjoy public nudity - often dressing himself in a gown or full outfit before exiting the bathroom - so this was the first time that Sherlock could observe everything from afar. After a few seconds, John cleared his throat and began to speak, “You brought the wrong suit.”

“I assure you, I did not,” Sherlock responded before turning back towards his mirror. He was wearing his trousers and an unbuttoned shirt which fluttered open as Sherlock styled his hair, “I didn't think that the pinstripe did much for you.”

“Then why buy it? It was bloody expensive!” John huffed, “We can return it.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock gestured, “there's no need. I just felt that the navy would be more suitable to the event. I added the white shirt and blue tie to match the shoes.”

John sighed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, “You're sure?”

“Yes. It was either that or a maroon colour, and since you have caught the sun recently, it would clash against your skin colour. Navy is more flattering,” Sherlock continued before pulling back from the mirror and raising an eyebrow at John, “although you could always go in your lumpy oatmeal coloured monstrosity and those marks and spencer jeans if you preferred?”

“Git,” John huffed in response, flicking two fingers up at Sherlock.

“Oh, there are underpants in the bag, too. I refused to let you sully the line of the suit with those dreadful things you call boxer shorts. Tesco, John? Really?” Sherlock smirked.

“Oh yeah, just pick out my pants. Totally normal,” John grumbled, turning to leave, “Anything else I should know about?”

“No. Oh wait, it was suggested that you dress to the right. Your...er…large penis would be better hidden that way,” Sherlock said, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I'm leaving now. I hate you,” John said playfully, sticking his finger up at Sherlock as he walked out of the bedroom.

After dressing in his new suit (which he would never admit to Sherlock did look much better on him than the pinstripe, not to mention the comfort of the fitted black briefs, which cupped his genitals perfectly), John went downstairs to find Sherlock sitting with his parents in the front room.

“Oh, John, look at you!” Mrs. Holmes tittered as she stood from the sofa to come towards him. She brought him in for a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Very handsome,” her eyes twinkled.

“Told you this suit would be better,” Sherlock chimed in annoyingly, still sitting in his chair. His eyes, however, were taking in every line of John’s body. John couldn’t help the pleased feeling in his gut, standing a bit taller, as Sherlock quirked his mouth in approval.

“Oh shut it,” John chastised, covering his own pleasure at Sherlock’s appraisal with sass.

“We must get a picture!” Mr. Holmes insisted as he also stood from the sofa.

“No pictures,” Sherlock intoned with great distaste, still not moving.

“How often will we get to photograph you before a school reunion?” His father tsked.

“Roughly every ten years,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“You didn’t go to your last one, and your father and I may be dead before the next one,” his mother guilted expertly.

“For the love of god, you’re only 70!” Sherlock rebuttaled with an overly dramatic eye roll.

“You never know,” Mrs. Holmes sniffed, not giving in to his logic, “Anything could happen.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, it’s just a picture,” John entered the fray with annoyance. Sometimes Sherlock forgot how lucky he was to still have his parents around.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to his with an intense look of betrayal, “You  _ are  _ aware that you’re meant to be in the picture with me?”

John flushed, because he hadn’t actually thought that was the case, “Why in the world would  _ I  _ be in the picture?”

Sherlock sighed heavily, “Because, John, you are my  _ plus one _ .”

And like a ton of bricks falling from the sky to bury him beneath a pile of understanding, John realised what this entire evening was going to look like to outsiders. To Sherlock’s former classmates...the bullies.

To the rest of the world, John is Sherlock’s date tonight.

Doing his best impression of Sherlock-caught-off-guard, John stood there and merely blinked for a few moments, attempting to process this shift in equilibrium. He knew, didn’t he, deep down that this was always what this was going to be? And he’s went along with it from the very beginning. In fact, he  _ pushed  _ Sherlock for this.

John shook his head a bit as he came back online to look directly into Sherlock’s eyes. His chest tightened as he saw Sherlock, still sitting in his chair, looking as though he’s been rejected by the one person (who isn’t one of his parents) who has sworn not to do that.

With his flood of newfound knowledge about Sherlock’s past - of all the hurtful words that have stayed with him over the years - John committed to this night with renewed determination.

“Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” John somehow even remembered what he was responding to. He smiled warmly, “It’s probably the first of many pictures tonight, so we might as well,” he continued with nonchalance, trying to portray comfort through a single stare.

Sherlock looked both hopeful and wary, as though it was too good to believe that John was still willing to do this for him. In what appeared to be a bit of an incredulous trance, Sherlock finally stood from the chair and walked towards John.

“Come on then, best smiles,” John teased, grinning and wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist as they looked at the Holmes parents. John felt a warm feeling inside; tingly sensations that shimmied through his limbs and left him feeling happy and content as Mr. Holmes snapped some pictures. When Sherlock was about to pull away, John pulled him back, “One more,” he said before standing on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock's cheek, “There you go, now you have an embarrassing picture of me.”

“Embarrassing because you're kissing me?” Sherlock scoffed, but John saw the blush of pink rushing over Sherlock's cheekbones.

“No, you daft git; because I'm a short arse,” John smiled, giving Sherlock's waist a squeeze before stepping away.

The Holmes parents fussed around the two men before the driver of the family car came into the room with a shy smile, “The car is waiting out front.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Holmes clapped, “Be a good boy! Don't fight anybody!”

“Mother,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “It's unlikely. We're grown-ups now.”

_ ‘Not that unlikely if your bullies are there,’  _ John thought to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn't take long to realise something was wrong. Sherlock wasn't where he was when John had left. Pushing through the crowds, John attempted to find Sherlock in the mass of bodies, eventually seeing him outside in the darkening air. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone.
> 
> Standing in the small group, Sherlock was arguing with a large, pasty-faced whale of a man who was pointing his thick finger into Sherlock's face, practically foaming at the mouth whilst Sherlock argued back. John felt his hair immediately stand on end, his anger building to bursting point as he clenched his fists and walked outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for homophobic language

St. Benedict's school was a huge, intimidating, stately mansion which rested on sprawling grounds. John had gaped at the building, blinking at Sherlock as he playfully asked, “Are you sure you're not a wizard?”

Sherlock had ignored his friend’s attempt at humour, almost completely silent as the car pulled up the long driveway to drop them at the well-lit front entrance. The scene was eerily similar to one which had happened twenty-plus-years ago when Sherlock had first been dropped at the steps by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, who kissed him on the cheek and shooed him off to begin his education. Feeling nervous, Sherlock held his breath as the car rolled to a stop and the driver climbed out to open the back doors.

“Thanks,” John mumbled to the driver, climbing out as gracefully as he could before popping his head back into the car to look at Sherlock, “You coming?”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, but made no attempt to move. It wasn't until another minute later that Sherlock actually shuffled across the seat to climb out, pulling at his suit and squaring his shoulders.

“You have nothing to be worried about,” John promised, putting a hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezing reassuringly, “Just remember: if anyone says anything…I  _ will _ cut a bitch,” he smirked.

That seemed to bolster Sherlock's mood as he smiled slightly and began to walk towards the main entrance with John lagging behind in their usual position. Once at the main door, they were asked their names and given their name badges to attach to their jackets before they were handed a glass of champagne and ushered through to the main hall.

John stared at the grandiose carvings of wood, the perfect decorations, and seemingly ancient stained glass which glistened in the windows. He felt out of place - like a chimney sweep in an old Victorian novel - but Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he looked around the room.

“No way!” A female voice from behind called out, causing both men to whirl around to look at the person who spoke, “Sherlock Holmes! And John Watson! I've read your blog!”

Sherlock stared at the name badge, recognising the name as one of his classmates. Eleanor Walker-Higgins wasn't a popular girl, but she wasn't one of the unpopular kids either, she had always been quite kind to Sherlock in passing, often giving him a smile and once giving him her handkerchief when his nose was bleeding from a fight.

“Ellie,” Sherlock said with a tilt of his head, “How nice to see you.”

“I can't believe you came!” she said loudly, reaching out to touch Sherlock as if to prove that he was really there in front of her, “I thought…well…what with everything that went on – but that's not – Are you working on a case?”

“No. No we're here to visit Professor Ellis. Give him our best wishes,” Sherlock said, stepping to John's side, “You know my friend, John Watson.”

“Pleasure, I'm sure,” John smiled, reaching to shake Eleanor's hand. Eleanor seemed to melt, fluttering her eyelashes at John and leaning into his touch flirtatiously. Her attempt at flirting didn't seem to have the desired effect as John dropped his hand and focussed back on Sherlock.

“He's in the back,” Ellie said shortly as she nodded towards where the stage was positioned, “I think he was talking to the Head.”

“It was nice seeing you, Ellie,” Sherlock smiled, reaching for John and tugging him away.

“She was okay?” John asked under his breath.

“She didn't bully me, if that's what you're asking, no,” Sherlock said stiffly as he walked through the crowds, gently pushing his way through until he spotted the professor.

Professor Ellis had always prided himself on his intellect and not his fashion, which was obvious. In a sea of suits and evening dresses, the professor was wearing a pair of beige slacks and a science-themed t-shirt which looked slightly threadbare. His long suffering wife, Tilly, stood beside him, nodding her head as she vaguely listened to whatever was being discussed. Sherlock watched for a short while until Tilly caught sight of him, her face lighting up as she tapped her husband and gestured towards Sherlock.

“My boy!” Professor Ellis cried, his mouth cracking into a huge grin, “My dear Sherlock!”

Sherlock's smile mirrored his teacher’s and he walked across the small space to meet him for a hug. John was slightly stunned; Sherlock never, ever touched anybody like this. Well, other than John himself, his parents, and Mrs. Hudson, but he had never seen Sherlock hug anybody else. Seeing Sherlock cuddling another man made something clench deep inside him with a tug of jealousy.

The two men spent a few moments babbling courtesy's to one another before Sherlock turned, introducing John to the professor and his wife.

“Pleasure,” John smiled, reaching out to give a kind handshake, “I've heard a lot about you.”

“Sherlock was my favourite pupil,” Professor Ellis grinned, “I know you shouldn't have favourites, but this child - he was spectacular. He was the cleverest boy I've ever known!”

Sherlock felt a deep warmth in his belly at the praise, feeling his cheeks turning hot with a blush.

“This lad,” Professor Ellis continued, pulling Sherlock to him playfully, almost like a father might with an older child, “he was starved for information. He wanted to know everything, absolutely everything.”

“Nothing has changed there, then,” John replied with a laugh.

“Oh, my dear Sherlock,” Professor Ellis chuckled, shaking his head, “I'm so happy to see you. You haven't wrote me for a while.”

“I've been busy,” Sherlock blushed as he shrugged.

“I know! We read the blog,” Tilly Ellis clucked, “The Aluminium Crutch. Wow, John, you certainly have a way with words.”

“Thank you,” John replied, enjoying the conversation immensely and feeling the warmth and genuine care which came from the couple as they ribbed Sherlock playfully, telling John of the various mishaps they had had in the labs and the trouble Sherlock often caused when he came over for dinner with the Ellis family.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Sherlock said as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the neatly wrapped gift. Handing it to Professor Ellis, Sherlock blushed, “It's – not nearly as much as you deserve. You – Well --”

“I know, boy,” the professor said softly, moving to fondly tap Sherlock's cheek, “I know.”

The conversation drew to a close, the intense moment having passed as the professor unwrapped his present and read the opening message. Tears sprang into his eyes, quickly coughed back as the teacher shook his head with a smile, “Thank you. Thank you, Sherlock.”

John could only watch as Sherlock nodded, reaching to kiss Tilly and shake Professor Ellis' hand before taking John away which allowed the headteacher to take to the stage, introducing the retiree and giving a short speech. John could hardly hear what he was saying as he focussed on Sherlock who was marching ahead, taking another glass of champagne to down in one gulp.

“Calm down,” John soothed, finally stopping Sherlock as they reached the open doors into the grounds, “It's fine. It's okay.”

“I'm okay, I just needed air,” Sherlock insisted, clearing his throat and running a hand through his curls, “It's good.”

“What you did there...what you gave him,” John said, standing closer to Sherlock so he could hear over the applause and cheering from the main room, “that will probably mean more to him than anything the others can give him.”

“It's not enough,” Sherlock whispered, clearing his throat once more, “Not enough to show my appreciation of what he – of --”

John noticed Sherlock trailing off and looked around him, noticing that Sherlock's gaze lingered on a small group of men who stood smoking on the edge of the grounds. The curl of the smoke was visible as it tangled around the men, all looking like podgy, middle-aged bankers with receding hairlines and growing waistlines.

Not wanting to draw attention to Sherlock or himself, John simply turned Sherlock back around into the main hall to watch as Professor Ellis gave a thank you speech which was both touching and heartfelt.

* * *

An hour later, John was on his fourth glass of champagne. He didn't feel drunk, but he did feel the overwhelming urge to piss. Sidling up to Sherlock who was chatting with another man from his class, John tugged on his arm, “Where are the loos?”

Sherlock tilted his head, “Through the door, third on the left.”

Nodding quickly, John rushed to use the facilities. They were marble and granite, all old fashioned in a way which was completely expected. John peed quickly, washing his hands and checking his reflection before heading back out.

It didn't take long to realise something was wrong. Sherlock wasn't where he was when John had left. Pushing through the crowds, John attempted to find Sherlock in the mass of bodies, eventually seeing him outside in the darkening air. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone.

Standing in the small group, Sherlock was arguing with a large, pasty-faced whale of a man who was pointing his thick finger into Sherlock's face, practically foaming at the mouth whilst Sherlock argued back. John felt his hair immediately stand on end, his anger building to bursting point as he clenched his fists and walked outside.

“It’s not my fault that you have chronic premature ejaculation and are unable to physically penetrate your wife,” Sherlock said with a scoff, “Yes, she’s having an affair. With your brother. And your son isn’t really your son; he’s your  _ nephew _ . Sorry about that,” he said without sounding at all sorry.

“Shut the fuck up!” the pasty-faced man screamed, getting closer to Sherlock, “You don’t know anything.”

“I know about your fetish for amputees,” Sherlock continued, looking both terrified and bored at once. 

“And you bring your fucking faggot boyfriend with you?” the man spat at Sherlock, pointing at John who had finally got close enough to hear the conversation, resulting in a surge of anger.

“Oh for goodness sake --” Sherlock responded, rolling his eyes, “are we still doing this? It’s been twenty years. Give it up. John isn't my boyfriend...”

“I'm his fiance,” John said, pushing up against Sherlock's side and standing on tiptoes to press a tender, but brief, kiss on Sherlock's lips, “and I would kindly ask that you don't use the word faggot. Actually, I won't ask you kindly, I'll warn you,” he said darkly.

“Warn me?” the man asked, his face going splotchy with rage, “You. You poof? You'll warn me?”

“I won't just warn you,” John said calmly, reaching for Sherlock's hand to entwine it with his own, “I'll kick your fucking head in, you homophobic, intolerant arsehole.”

The man blinked, taking a step forward menacingly, “And what are you going to do? Eh?”

“Mate, leave it. They're not worth it...” another voice from the crowd said, obviously realising the danger of his friend's situation.

“Nah. No. I want to know what this Nancy is going to do,” the man barked, getting up close to John, “I can't believe Sher-cock Homo actually turned up.”

John licked his lips, feeling the peace and calm of adrenaline flowing through his body as he lifted Sherlock's hand to his lips, kissing Sherlock's knuckles before dropping his friend's hand and moving so quick that the dim-witted bully had no chance to avoid John's movements. With one quick jab, John had hit the man in the windpipe, stopping his breathing briefly and causing the bully to choke whilst John twirled him, pulling his arm up his back until the other man screamed shrill and loud. Luckily the music, which was now playing, drowned out the cry.

Pushing the man against the brick wall, John pushed the man's face into the tough bricks, scraping his skin into a graze as he kicked the man's legs open, forcing him to balance precariously whilst John kept his hand pinned between his shoulder blades.

“Do you know what they say about homophobes?” John asked quietly, directly in the man's ear, “They say that they're overcompensating. Why are you so interested in what Sherlock does with another man? Hmm? Had a crush on him, did you?”

“What? No!” the other man cried out, yelping when John pulled on his thumb, “I'm not gay!”

“People like you disgust me,” John spat, pulling slightly harder than necessary in order to hurt the man more, “You ruined the man's childhood. You hurt him, you degraded him, and now, as an adult, you're still trying to bring that on him? You're a fucking disgrace.”

“I'm sorry!” the man shouted, “I didn't mean it --”

“You're only sorry because someone has called you out,” John said, looking back at Sherlock who was looking wide-eyed and stunned, as was the group of men who stood around awkwardly, “You're a coward. A coward and a bigot and you should think about your actions.”

“I will! I will!” The man cried, tears streaming down his face.

“Apologise to Sherlock,” John said, kicking the man's feet further apart and listening to him wail in pain, “Properly. Like you mean it. Because if you don't…this is just the start. I was a soldier, and I'm a doctor. I can break every single bone in your body whilst naming them. I can break bones in places that can never be reset, they'll hurt for the rest of your life as a permanent reminder of your bigotry and general wankerish behaviour.”

“Yeah…yeah, I'll apologise,” the man insisted, nodding quickly, “I'm sorry!”

“To his face,” John said, spinning the man around and throwing him to the floor so the man was sprawled at Sherlock's feet.

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have – I didn't mean to – I was an idiot. I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” the man repeated, crying with no care for the snot bubbles which streamed down his philtrum.

Sherlock looked at John in awe before nodding, “I accept your apology, Ronald.”

“Oh,” John blinked, looking at Sherlock and then down at the other man, “ _ You're _ Ronald James?”

“Y-yes,” the man sobbed, rubbing his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

John licked his lips with a single nod before kicking Ronald down the short flight of stone stairs behind them which led to the perfectly manicured grounds. It wasn't a long flight of stairs, but it was enough to bump and bruise the fat man who rolled and then landed in the flower beds, coating himself in soil and the horse manure which the gardener had spread across the roses. John looked down over the rail of the stairs with a wide smile, “You're exactly where you belong: in the shit. You are nothing.”

Reaching for Sherlock again, John lifted the man's hand to his lips once more, kissing it tenderly as he stared at Sherlock's blinking and shocked face.

“Let's go for a walk,” John suggested, pushing past the group of men who stood nervously at the top of the stairs, peering down at Ronald who was still crying and lying in the rose bed.

John began leading them - joined by their entwined hands - towards the pond, but there were too many people already around it for Sherlock’s liking, so he pulled John towards the edge of the grounds where a forest rested instead.

Once out of earshot, both men started to speak at the same moment.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait, what are you sorry for?” Sherlock asked in confusion, stopping their forward progress to look at John quizzically.

“What are you  _ thanking  _ me for?” John countered with his own bewilderment, “I just made a huge scene in front of your classmates, I kissed you without your consent, I upgraded our relationship status from friends to fiances in ten seconds flat  _ also _ without your consent…” John may have continued his diatribe if Sherlock hadn’t lifted their joined hands to place a soft kiss on his knuckles.

“Thank you,” Sherlock repeated, purposefully holding John’s eyes with a pleased twinkle within them, “for defending my honour.”

“Your honour shouldn’t  _ need  _ defending,” he argued petulantly, but he couldn’t deny the feeling of pride in his gut now that he knew Sherlock didn’t hate him for overreacting.

“And yet you did it anyway,” Sherlock outright smiled before gently tugging John’s hand to move them forward again.

“Well, he was a right bastard, wasn’t he? He deserved it.”

“Yes, he really did. It was wonderful to see him finally get what was coming to him.”

After a few moments of walking in silence, John had to ask: “Is that what it was like for you all the time back then?”

Sherlock cleared his throat before admitting, “The general direction and content of the words, yes, but usually the violence was leveled at myself. No one ever came to my aid like you did.”

“Never?” John asked with complete incomprehension. How could no one ever help the boy this man used to be? How could they possibly stand by and just watch it happen?

“Mr. Ellis, of course, as we’ve discussed. But students? Well, thanks to the rumours, I didn’t really have friends. There was no one to stand up for me.”

John’s hand reflexively tightened around Sherlock’s in protection and comfort, “You know, there are times I wish we had known each other as kids. I would have kicked so much bully arse on your behalf that no one would dare to mess with either of us.”

Sherlock chuckled lightly before admitting quietly, “I find myself wishing the same thing on occasion. I can’t fully comprehend how different my life would have been had I known your true friendship earlier on within it.”

John’s chest constricted painfully at the words and the sadness behind them, “How different  _ both _ of our lives would have been,” he amended for the other man.

Sherlock smiled shyly at him in return.

Behind them, coming from the school, bells started to toll.

“What’s that?” John asked, looking over his left shoulder at both Sherlock and the school at the same time.

Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose, “Dinner,” he stated with heavy trepidation.

“We can do this,” John reassured him, turning them back towards the school to answer the summons.

“John,” Sherlock dug his heels in and pulled on John’s hand to bring him back. Once the shorter man was facing him he said, “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to pretend that we’re something we’re not; you being there as my friend is gossip enough for them, believe me.”

“I know I don’t have to, but they all think it anyway, just like everyone else seems to,” John smirked playfully, “I am your  _ plus one _ , after all, and that usually implies something, doesn’t it?” John started walking backwards then, pulling a still-very-much-not-convinced Sherlock with him, “Besides, this makes it more fun. Just think of it as practice for a case.”

“What case could call for me being in love with you?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted with an unconcerned smile and a shrug, “but maybe we can start working it in as a disguise,” he winked playfully before facing forward and walking beside Sherlock instead of leading him.

The warmth spreading through Sherlock’s chest told him all he needed to know: that loving John was too close to the truth to ever be considered a disguise.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can talk about this,” John said.
> 
> “I’d rather not,” Sherlock responded, looking straight forward as his eyes followed the progress of the car.
> 
> “You think I was pretending, but…”
> 
> Sherlock turned sharply towards him, “Don’t,” he stated, but it was practically a plea, his eyes filled with turmoil, “Don’t say anything you don’t mean or that we can’t come back from.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song the boys dance to is one that I (Kittie) adore, the second song is one which Goddess added.
> 
> I had never heard the song before but it's quite spooky in how accurate it is for the boys. The music is linked, so just click on the words (Music began and Singing) and it should take you to Youtube.
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Just a short one today, then we're starting on the smutty build up

The dinner was a sumptuous affair with numerous courses of rich and delicious tasting food. John had finished off two portions of chocolate gateaux and half a bottle of wine as he chatted to one of the History teachers who sat to his right. The other teacher had also been in the army and the pair had bonded through tales of valour whilst Sherlock sat between John and Professor Ellis. Gently and slowly, John dropped his hand to his thigh before inching it towards Sherlock, placing his hand on Sherlock’s leg whilst continuing his discussion on military tactics.

Sherlock seemed to freeze, eyes staring at a spot above the head of another attendee who turned to look at whatever it was that Sherlock was looking at. It was a little bit spooky, in all honesty, watching Sherlock go completely offline. After a few seconds, Sherlock gave a sharp inhale and cleared his throat, lifting his fork shakily to pick at the chocolate cake in front of him.

There was no further touching during the meal, but John enjoyed talking to the other people near him, chatting amicably and with an ease that Sherlock found foreign. John was working class surrounded by toffs, but he managed somehow to blend in perfectly.

Sherlock had never loved him as much as he did in that moment.

The feelings only grew in intensity as they left their seats and headed back into the main hall where a large band had set up. People milled around them, getting refreshed drinks or chatting with old classmates, but John and Sherlock simply stood - John's arm wrapped in the crook of Sherlock's arm as the [music began](https://youtu.be/1W6MT12oHiI).

“D'ya want to dance?” John slurred slightly, the red wine making his lips look darker and more seductive.

“You don't like to dance,” Sherlock scoffed.

“But you do...” John answered, lifting an eyebrow, “and you did teach me a few steps.”

Sherlock blinked but allowed himself to be pulled through the crowd onto the dancefloor. A few other couples had joined in, but they were the only same-sex relationship in the room – not that it bothered John – but it did worry Sherlock.

“Everyone is staring,” he whispered anxiously.

“Let them,” John replied, as the soft voice of the singer began to croon.

Placing one hand on Sherlock's hip and holding the other tight, John smiled and began to move in a gentle box step. It wasn't fancy, and John knew he would never get invited onto Strictly Come Dancing, but he could make do for tonight.

_Dance me love, Dance me through the dark._

John smiled at the lyrics as he swayed with Sherlock, looking up and ignoring everybody else in the hall. The crowds melted away until it was just the two of them, sharing this tender moment.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said lowly, although he wasn't entirely sure which of the hundred reasons he was thanking John for, exactly.

John smiled brightly, turning them against the crowd and listening to the music. It had almost quietened to nothingness, with just a soft piano solo in the middle as the female singer swayed. When she began to sing again, the crowd began to applaud and John couldn't help it as he stepped onto his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock softly. Their lips had barely parted before John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled his head down for another kiss, this one meaningful but not passionate. To anyone observing, it looked like a kiss between two people in love with each other, and when John pulled back, his cheeks flushed as he rested his forehead against Sherlock's, just enjoying the moment.

With a tinge of melancholy, the pair finally separated from the other. Sherlock, his heart aching at being so close to John without it being real, sadly asked, “Has an acceptable amount of time passed where we can leave now? I think I’d rather like to go home.”

John frowned at the tone but agreed without a thought, “Yeah, we can go. I need to use the loo before we do, so why don’t you go and say your goodbye’s to Mr. Ellis while I’m gone.”

“Must I?” He asked with disdain.

John smiled slightly at that before affirming, “Yes, it’s proper etiquette. You should really know that as a posh boy.”

As Sherlock stood there, offended, John walked away laughing towards the bathroom at the other end of the room.

As he walked away, John’s heart began to ache thinking about the evening being over. It certainly hadn’t been the night he had imagined, but it had somehow been so much better. He wasn’t an idiot: he knew why it had been so easy to stand up for Sherlock and pretend to be his fiance - he’d been in love with the man for years, after all - but it was incredibly difficult to go through the motions, pretending at the life he really, _actually_ wanted. To see what he was really missing.

John pressed the palm of his left hand to his heart, trying in vain to ease the ache. It’s interesting, isn’t it, how they call it heartache even though it radiates through your entire body? Like the sorrow enters your heart and gets pumped to your extremities along with your blood, until it permeates every cell within you.

He chuckled humourlessly at the predicament he got himself into before pushing open the door to the lavatory.

Sherlock, heart still aching itself, spotted Prof. Ellis standing alone along the back wall and watching the proceedings with an indulgent smile, a glass of champagne in his hand. His smile broadened as he noticed Sherlock’s approach.

“My boy,” he greeted, the alcohol clearly going to his head, “I’m so glad you came tonight. I was worried you wouldn’t want anything to do with this place.”

“I _don’t_ want anything to do with this place, but John said I owed it to you to suffer through.”

“Ah,” his smile only seemed to grow somehow, “he’s a good man you’ve got there. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve found someone to take care of and appreciate you.”

Sherlock’s heart gave a particularly painful ache at the words. He shook his head and admitted on a whisper, “We’re not actually together.”

Prof. Ellis laughed, “No, of course you’re not; that much is absurdly obvious to anyone really looking.”

Sherlock’s heart ached again and he closed his eyes briefly before agreeing, “Because it’s an act for him. He’s only pretending we’re in love while I…” but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it aloud. It sounded so pathetic.

“You’re misunderstanding me, my boy,” he fondly shakes his head, “ _think. Why_ would it be obvious that you’re not already together?”

“Because he’s pretending and I’m not!” Sherlock half-yelled, but luckily the music and nearby conversations were still loud enough not to draw too much attention. Except for just behind Sherlock where the taller man heard a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock closed his eyes tight against the certain, _horrible_ feeling in his gut that he knew whose breath that was. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and turned to find John nearly at his side; he hadn’t even heard him return.

“No,” Prof. Ellis continued to the both of them now, much more serious, “because you both have those stupid looks on your faces that say you have no idea that your feelings are mutual,” after letting that statement sink into the brains of the frozen men before him, he reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and said, “It was great to see you again; stay in touch this time,” before turning to John, “It was a pleasure to meet you, John.” He walked off before either man could respond to him.

They stood staring at each other for another half a minute before Sherlock abruptly took off towards the door.

“Sherlock!” John called after him, cursing under his breath as he practically had to jog to catch up to the other man. When he finally caught up to him on the front step, Sherlock was signalling to the family driver to bring the car around.

“We can talk about this,” John said.

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock responded, looking straight forward as his eyes followed the progress of the car.

“You think I was pretending, but…”

Sherlock turned sharply towards him, “Don’t,” he stated, but it was practically a plea, his eyes filled with turmoil, “Don’t say anything you don’t mean or that we can’t come back from.”

“I wasn’t going to,” John said in disbelief as the car pulled up.

Instead of responding, Sherlock headed straight for the vehicle.

The ride was silent and awkward. The tension in the air stifling as Sherlock worried that John would leave now that he knew the truth, and John fumed over the fact that Sherlock wasn’t getting it. He knows Sherlock thinks this will ruin things - that it isn’t real - but he won’t allow John to even speak to prove him wrong.

Then he got an idea.

“I’ve had this song stuck in my head all night,” John finally spoke into the oppressive silence, “if I play it, will you listen?”

Sherlock looked at him with a crinkled brow and nodded just enough for John to see it.

“It’s from a musical,” he warns as he thumbs through his phone trying to find it, “not a great one; this is really the only song I like from it. It spoke to me.”

“Alright.”

A man started [singing.](https://youtu.be/Xex4PR1CMRQ)

 _You don't need to love me_  
_Or tell me that you do_  
_Don't make me any promises_  
_Just promise we're not through_  
_Don't give me one damn thing_  
_I won't let you call this greed_  
_Just let me give to you_  
_That's the only thing I need_  
_I know that this can work_  
_If you'd plant one simple seed_  
_You'd see it grow_  
_You don't need to love me_  
_To know_

 _You don't need to need me_  
_It's better that you don't_  
_If each of us can walk away_  
_It won't matter that I won't_  
_We'll both be self-contained_  
_But together, not alone_  
_You can keep me in the dark_  
_Hell, it's all I've ever known_  
_But we both could use a friend_  
_Who will always check the phone and take the call_  
_You don't need to need me_  
_At all_

 _Let me be your emergency contact_  
_Your occasional plus one_  
_Your excuse to take a sick day_  
_When the forecast calls for sun_

 _We can keep on being lonely_  
_But we don't have to be apart_  
_And I'll never even ask you_  
_To let me have your heart_

_So I'll never break your heart  
No, I'll never break your heart _

_You don't need to love me_  
_To let me help you through_  
_You don't need to confide in me_  
_I've got crap enough for two_  
_You don't need to answer_  
_I'll know before you do_  
_But hear me_  
_And believe me_  
_That you don't need to love me_  
_The way that I love you_

Sherlock must agree that it’s eerily apt to their lives, but…

“Do you?” Sherlock whispered into the dim car, their eyes searching for each other.

John nodded, “I do. Loving you has been the most natural thing I’ve ever known.”

And before John knew what was coming, Sherlock’s mouth was crashing onto his own with Sherlock’s enthusiasm to reach him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me?”
> 
> “Must I?” Sherlock grumbled, looking away, “You already know it…and I've never said it to anybody before. Surely you understand?”
> 
> “I do,” John nodded, cupping Sherlock's cheek, “but it would still mean a lot to hear it. I'm not going to push; we have all the time in the world but I just thought tha --”
> 
> “I love you, John,” Sherlock said in a barely-there whisper, his eyes locking onto John as he spoke, a pretty blush covering his cheeks and nose.
> 
> John pulled him down again for another intense kiss, like the ones they shared in the back of the car. Sherlock began to walk them towards the bed as his hands removed John’s jacket before moving to pull his shirt from his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters to go... we wouldn't possibly tease you by drawing out the lure of smut would we?

The driver seemed relieved to pull up at the Holmes manor, and hopped out of the car to open the back door. Neither man noticed, too busy snogging one another passionately like teenagers to realise that the car had stopped, or that there was a breeze entering the car which was rapidly airing out the smell of lust and desire around them.

Clearing his throat, the driver stood on nervously until Sherlock pulled back from John and nudged the doctor. John turned to look at the poor man who was attempting to avert his eyes from two impressively erect cocks pushing up against formal trousers. The driver moved to a better position and simply stood silent and stoic as both Sherlock and John climbed out of the car.

“Thanks,” John blushed, nodding as he entwined his fingers into Sherlock's and allowed Sherlock to pull him towards the house.

Sherlock had just entered the hallway through the entrance door when a flash caught their attention and both Holmes parents stood grinning happily. John could only imagine what that photo would show; both men flushed and panting, their erections thankfully hidden by their jackets, but still looking incredibly aroused.

“Oh. You're still awake,” Sherlock said, blinking at his parents, “Why? I expected you to be in bed.”

“We wanted to see how the evening went!” Mrs. Holmes grinned, noticing the entwined hands without a word, “It seems to have gone well, then?”

“John punched a man, I saw Professor Ellis, now I would like to retire to bed,” Sherlock answered with a rapid and clipped tone, “Goodnight mother, father.”

“Hold up,” Mr. Holmes frowned, “we made cocoa.”

“That's…very thoughtful,” John replied, gritting his teeth and willing his erection down.

“No it isn't!” Sherlock scoffed, glaring at John, “I hoped we could do – the thing?”

“The thing?” John frowned in reply, glancing at Sherlock as he narrowed his eyes, “Oh. Oh right…that thing.”

“Dear Lord, do you think your mother and I are blind?” Mr Holmes said as he rolled his eyes, “Obviously there has been a shift in your relationship and you're – interested in furthering it.”

John blushed, clearing his throat, “Mr. Holmes…I – I wouldn't...”

“Oh hush,” Mrs. Holmes stepped in kindly, putting a hand on John's shoulder, “Do you think we're prudes? Hmm? We understand the drive of arousal and lust…”

“Yes, thank you. That's enough of that,” Sherlock grimaced.

“Your mother and I will head off to bed shortly,” Mr. Holmes explained with a soft, almost proud smile, “so you and your John can have some privacy.”

Sherlock's breath escaped in a long huff and he tugged on John's arm, “We're very tired. Goodnight. Don't wake us in the morning...as I've said: very tired.”

“Mhmm,” Mrs. Holmes said smugly from behind them, “I expect you'll be exhausted.”

John mewled with embarrassment, almost tripping up the step as he heard Mr. Holmes shout after them.

“I've put in some prophylactics in your bedside table. And the lady in the chemist suggested a type of lubricant so I left that there, too.”

* * *

Sherlock led John eagerly into his own bedroom with barely a complaint from the older man.

“My pajamas are in the other room,” John teased, motioning vaguely towards the door as Sherlock closed them in.

“You won’t be needing them,” Sherlock asserted before moving to kiss John again.

“I might,” he countered, pulling back after a brief kiss. The presence (and blatant enthusiasm) of the Holmes parents had finally managed to quell his arousal.

“Why? I thought we were going to do the thing?”

“You don’t have to keep calling it ‘ _ the thing’ _ now that we’re alone,” John smiled fondly up at him.

Sherlock blushed and quietly murmured something John couldn’t quite catch.

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound haughty but not being able to cover every trace of doubt in his tone.

“Oh, no,” John negated before pulling Sherlock’s lips back to his to kiss away the frown. He pulled back just enough to separate their lips but allow their foreheads to still touch, “of course I do. It’s just...it doesn’t feel like quite the right time, does it?”

“But we love each other,” Sherlock stated with confusion.

John’s heart leapt at the statement. He pulled further from Sherlock to look him in the eye, probably impossibly besotted-looking, “We do?” Because John had only heard Sherlock admit that he wasn’t pretending at being his boyfriend tonight; the man had said nothing of loving him in return.

As nonchalantly as he could affect, Sherlock responded with a quiet, “Obviously.”

“Tell me?”

“Must I?” Sherlock grumbled, looking away, “You already know it…and I've never said it to anybody before. Surely you understand?”

“I do,” John nodded, cupping Sherlock's cheek, “but it would still mean a lot to hear it. I'm not going to push; we have all the time in the world but I just thought tha --”

“I love you, John,” Sherlock said in a barely-there whisper, his eyes locking onto John as he spoke, a pretty blush covering his cheeks and nose.

John pulled him down again for another intense kiss, like the ones they shared in the back of the car. Sherlock began to walk them towards the bed as his hands removed John’s jacket before moving to pull his shirt from his trousers.

John reluctantly ended the kiss while placing his hands over Sherlock’s to still them, “You’re making it  _ incredibly  _ difficult for me to tell you no.”

“So then don’t,” Sherlock argued, attempting to move his hands back to John’s waist, but the other man only held on tighter.

“I really, really want to wait until we’re back at Baker Street to do this,” John insisted.

“And I really, really don’t want to let you go.”

John smiled, “You don’t have to; I want to spend the night with you, just not having sex.”

Sherlock blushed again at the thought, “I don’t see what the problem is: my parents have said it’s fine and even provided aids.”

“Yeah,” John cleared his throat awkwardly just thinking about it, “that’s the crux of the problem,” at Sherlock’s perplexed look, John elaborated, “Their blessing is very sweet and all, but it’s a bit weird. I don’t want to equate your parents into our sex life; I hope to be having quite a lot of it with you, and that may hinder things.”

Sherlock seemed to consider his reasoning before nodding, “Your logic is sound; we’ll wait until we’re home. But you won’t leave me tonight?”

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

* * *

 

When John awoke the next morning it was to a nest of dark curls under his nose and a starfished detective taking up the majority of the bed. Blinking himself into full consciousness, John looked down and smiled. Somehow in the night, Sherlock had taken off his pajamas and was laid in just underpants, his bare legs tangled around John's smaller ones.

John didn't want to move - truly he was comfortable and content to remain under Sherlock until the younger man awoke - but his bladder was protesting quite dramatically at the amount of champagne he had forced into it. John mewled in complaint and shuffled across the bed, shaking his head when Sherlock made a snuffling noise and moved across with him, continuing his grasp onto John's body.

“Sherlock...” John whispered, stroking Sherlock's curls back from his face to gently wake him, “Hey, Sherlock. Wake up.”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled but his eyes flickered blearily, his tongue flicking out to lick his sleep dry lips, “What do you want?”

“A wee,” John replied, smiling down at his friend.

“Not sure I can do anything to help with that, unless you want me to hold it?” Sherlock said jokingly before his eyes opened fully, “Actually...”

“No,” John laughed, holding up a hand, “I'm fine with that, thanks. Can manage. I just need you to untangle yourself as I'm bursting.”

Sherlock considered John's words and then huffed, flinging himself onto his back with a dramatic flourish, “You spoil everything.”

“I know,” John replied happily, kissing Sherlock's forehead and then getting out of bed. Dressed in only his pants, John was very aware that Sherlock could see his entire body and he cringed at the click in his knees as he stood from the bed. Sherlock didn't respond, but John ensured he clenched his buttocks to make them tighter and more attractive.

“What on earth are you doing?” Sherlock chuckled from the bed, one arm behind his head and the other resting on his stomach in a seamlessly seductive pose.

“I don't want you to see my flabby arse,” John smirked over his shoulder, tensing his bum and thighs.

“Your arse is many things, but it is  _ not _ flabby,” Sherlock insisted, licking his lips, “Delightful? Definitely. Delicious? I hope to find out...”

“Stop,” John snorted, holding a finger up in warning, “I need a wee, and I can't do that with a stiffy, so stop it.”

“See, you spoil everything,” Sherlock repeated, huffing dramatically.

* * *

Once both men were showered and dressed, John kissed Sherlock softly and took him by the hand as they began their descent downstairs to breakfast. Both men could hear the Holmes parents chattering and playfully fighting with one another as their plates clicked and their cutlery chimed. John was quickly aware of the similarities between the Holmes marriage and his and Sherlock's friendship, and he found himself hoping it would last the same length of time.

“Good morning!” Mrs. Holmes smiled as they walked into the room, startling Mr. Holmes who looked over at the door. John was very aware of the pair of them scanning both men, obviously deducing the evening.

“Morning,” John replied, moving to sit beside Mr. Holmes and opposite Mrs. Holmes.

“Lockie?” Mr. Holmes replied, pouring out tea for their guests, “Did you have a good night?”

“We didn't have sex,” Sherlock huffed, his eyes meeting John's shocked expression challengingly.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, blushing crimson.

“Oh,” Mrs. Holmes said sadly, reaching to touch Sherlock's arm, “It'll happen, sweetheart. Don't you worry.”

John had absolutely no idea what the courteous reply should be to this situation. Normally, families didn't discuss sex over the breakfast table, but as usual, the Holmes' bucked the trend.

“It – I didn't – It just wasn't…it wasn't the right time,” John insisted, clearing his throat, “I'm sure it will happen…it’s going to happen… _ definitely _ . Just at home.”

Mrs. Holmes seemed to be cheered by that news and nodded as she handed Sherlock the jam, “That's good then.”

“You can take the prophylactics and lubricant home with you,” Mr. Holmes hummed, “Myself and Mummy won't be needing them...”

Mrs. Holmes tittered and reached across the table to take Mr. Holmes' hand, smiling flirtatiously before gesturing with her other hand, “Oh, we'll leave them in Mycroft's room. For when him and Gregory stay over.”

“Yes,” John nodded quickly, smirking, “Yes. Do that.”

He couldn't wait to torment Greg.

“So when do you two think you might be heading back on the road?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“As soon as possible. I would quite like to get home so that we can have sex,” Sherlock said without a care, not even looking up from his phone in hand.

John choked on his tea while both parents nodded sagely in understanding, “Of course,” Mr. Holmes replied.

“Well, we don’t have to  _ rush  _ home; we can certainly stay for lunch if you’d like. Supper, even,” John countered, supremely embarrassed by this family’s nonchalance towards the topic.

“Supper?” Mrs. Holmes sounded scandalized, “Good God, do you even  _ want  _ to have sex with our Sherlock?”

“Wha-” John started, but couldn’t finish even the word as he looked around the table at three very accusatory, curious faces.

“Well, it’s a fair question,” Mrs. Holmes continued haughtily, “you didn’t engage in coitus last night, even though we provided everything you’d need, and now you’re putting off going home? It just seems like you’re not that interested, John,” she ended, sounding disappointed.

“I am interested!” He responded angrily before he could let his embarrassment take over, “I’m  _ very  _ interested. It has taken a  _ considerable  _ amount of self-restraint to have waited, and continue to wait,” he paused and it sunk in what he just admitted to his soon-to-be-lover’s parents. He softened before continuing, “It’s just...I’m not exactly comfortable talking about this aloud.”

“With us?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“With  _ anyone _ ,” John stressed, “It’s practically part of British law: tea and prudishness. We don’t talk about it; it’s just not on.”

“We’ve never understood that thinking,” Mrs. Holmes dismissed without a care, “Siger and I still indulge in sex multiple times a week. It’s such a profound connection and only proves how much we still love each other; why hide or not talk about something like that?”

John tried to think of a logical answer to the question, but he honestly couldn’t find one, so he merely shook his head and lifted his shoulders.

“So, you do still want to have sex when we get home?” Sherlock asked shyly from across the table.

“Yes, God yes,” John replied emphatically, “I just feel like we have plenty of time and there’s no need to rush it.”

“You may not have as much time as you think,” Mr. Holmes cautioned.

“What do you mean?” John asked, crinkle in his brow.

Mr. Holmes chuckled, “Have you met my son? You know better than anyone the dangers that he gets himself into. How little care he takes chasing after criminals.”

John blanched at that, remembering the numerous times Sherlock had nearly gotten himself killed. Mr. Holmes was right: time with Sherlock was unpredictable and finite. His eyes - full of realisation and trepidation - found Sherlock’s curious and slightly-weary ones.

“Right. Maybe we  _ should  _ get going,” John said to Sherlock.

“But you said-” Sherlock started in confusion.

“Sod what I said, your dad is right. Come home with me.”

“Now?” Sherlock asked, still trying to catch up to John’s sudden shift in mentality.

“Preferably hours ago, but now will do,” he agreed, pushing his chair back as he stood up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hissed before placing his forehead and nose against Sherlock’s, eyes closed in bliss, “Lord knows I will probably lose control soon and fuck you senseless into that posh mattress of yours,” he practically warned, to which Sherlock responded by moaning low and pulsing his body against John’s, “but,” John stressed, nuzzling his nose affectionately, “let me relish this - in finally having you. In being allowed to touch you, kiss you, love you.”
> 
> “John,” Sherlock whispered in that way that the doctor had never heard his name uttered by a single other soul before him; equal parts reverent and awed with a dash of timidity, “are you always this romantic with your partners?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smutty smut!

The drive back to Baker Street was quick and dull. Not that Sherlock or John noticed much of it, wrapped in one another’s arms with their tongues in one another’s mouths. The driver had put up the soundproof panel between them to give himself some respite from the soft moans and slaps of lips which he tried to ignore. He was thankful when he pulled up to the kerb outside Baker Street and helped the men with their baggage.

“Thank you, Peter,” John smiled, having learned the drivers name (something Sherlock had never thought to do).

The driver nodded in response and climbed back into the car, driving away and heading back home, leaving his passengers by the black door.

“Home sweet home,” John grinned, lifting his bags and letting Sherlock grab the longer garment bags.

Pushing open the door, John and Sherlock moved to their flat and closed the door behind them, dropping their luggage and immediately turning to one another. John couldn’t seem to help himself as he grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pushed him against the black patterned wallpaper, their odd height difference making the first kiss slightly uncoordinated until they repositioned their faces and Sherlock bent slightly at the knees to return the snog.

Hot arousal pumped through both bodies as John began gently undulating his hips to push and rut against Sherlock’s own cock. Neither man was fully hard (although they weren’t far off) but it didn’t seem to matter as they worked themselves slowly into a frenzy. Moaning and breathing deeply as John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson cried as she pushed open the door, almost bashing it into the men, “I heard you come in, I made scones! Fresh and still warm…where are you boys?”

John let his head fall forward against Sherlock’s clavicle and inhaled deeply to calm himself. He was getting awfully annoyed with elderly people interrupting his sexual activities.

“We’re here, Mrs. Hudson,” John answered, peeping his head around the door.

Mrs. Hudson craned her head and blushed a pretty pink, her hands clapping together as she became aware of the situation, “Oh! Oh…”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock complained, clenching his fingers into John’s jumper, “Could you kindly come back later? Next week, perhaps. Or take an extended holiday…I hear Bhutan is nice this time of year.”

Mrs. Hudson tutted and rolled her eyes, “Don’t you worry about me; I’ll cover the scones and you can collect some later. I’ll leave you be.”

“Thank you,” John smiled, still not pulling away from Sherlock. He didn’t want Mrs. Hudson to see his obvious and prominent erection which wasn’t hidden by a suit jacket this time.

“It’s time for my programmes,” Mrs. Hudson responded as she began to turn back into the hall, “Having an issue with my hearing…the volume might be slightly loud.”

John shook his head but laughed, “Thanks.”

“Why does your hearing have anything to do with us?” Sherlock asked puzzled, “John isn’t coming down to look in your ear; he’s busy.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed along with John, who kissed Sherlock’s cheek, “She means she’ll turn up the sound so she doesn’t hear --  _ our  _ noises.”

“Oh,” Sherlock blushed but cleared his throat, “Good. Okay. Goodbye, then.”

“Enjoy,” Mrs. Hudson teased, closing the door behind her and heading downstairs, clicking her door closed which was quickly followed by the sound of a television gameshow being put on loudly beneath them.

“People don’t want us to have sex,” John complained, pulling away, “they keep interrupting us.”

“That’s not true; my parents wanted us to have sex. They were quite keen on it, in fact,” Sherlock replied as he brushed past John and began to kick off his shoes and hung up his jacket.

“Before we get -- hormonal and lust-addled again, I think we should quickly talk through the er…the sex thing,” John said.

“Oh my goodness,” Sherlock scoffed, “I want to be penetrated by you. Numerous times. I would also like to taste your penis and possibly your anus. I believe its called rimming.”

John coughed but nodded, “Yeah…yeah that’s -- Jesus, that’s fine, but I just need some other details before we go on.”

“I’m clean, so I should think that we wouldn’t have to use condoms. I also know you are clean because you’re extremely insistent on safe sex with your previous partners,” Sherlock rambled, his hands moving to his shirt buttons to slowly undo them, “I have no hard limits in regards to sexual acts. I don’t think I would like pain -- or at least not too much of it. Biting and scratching is okay --”

“Sherlock…” John interrupted, shaking his head, “You’re a madman.”

“Quite,” Sherlock gave a half shrug, “but I’ve wanted this for quite some time.”

Walking over to Sherlock, John placed his hand in the centre of Sherlock’s chest and stopped him undoing more of his own buttons, “Then let’s go to bed.”

“Finally,” Sherlock breathed in relief, grabbing John’s hand from his chest and pulling him towards his own main-floor bedroom.

John chuckled and smiled wide, following the other man without complaint. Once inside with the door closed, Sherlock practically jumped John, pinning him against the door and kissing him with gusto. John indulged him for a few moments before taking control back - he switched their positions so Sherlock was against the door instead before cupping the taller man’s face and gentling the kisses. Sherlock whined in protest, attempting to deepen the kiss again. John pulled back.

“Patience,” John scolded gently.

“No,” Sherlock pouted confidently while lowering his hands to John’s hips, pulling their groins flush once more.

John hissed before placing his forehead and nose against Sherlock’s, eyes closed in bliss, “Lord knows I will probably lose control soon and fuck you senseless into that posh mattress of yours,” he practically warned, to which Sherlock responded by moaning low and pulsing his body against John’s, “but,” John stressed, nuzzling his nose affectionately, “let me relish this - in finally  _ having  _ you. In being allowed to touch you, kiss you, love you.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered in that way that the doctor had never heard his name uttered by a single other soul before him; equal parts reverent and awed with a dash of timidity, “are you always this romantic with your partners?”

John found himself shaking his head, still connected to Sherlock’s, before he had even thought of his response, “Not nearly this much. You are so incredibly different from anyone else, Sherlock; I’ve never felt this way about anyone before you. It’s cliche and it sounds stupid and it’s bloody  _ frightening _ , but it’s real.”

Sherlock, at a loss for words, ducked his head down to John’s neck and nuzzled the skin there. After a few long moments, he lifted his head to meet John’s eyes, both sets bursting with a million inexpressible words and feelings.

“Are you done relishing yet?” Sherlock asked mischievously.

John’s smile brightened, “For now,” he conceded before pulling Sherlock from the door and guiding him to the bed, pushing him down onto it.

Sherlock's shirt was gaped open at the front and John watched the mottled blush cover the pale skin. Sherlock's signals of arousal were certainly helping to push him towards his crazed, lust-filled rut, but he held back. Walking to stand over Sherlock, he kissed him softly and carefully, his tongue flicking into the young man's mouth as his clever surgeon hands began finishing the buttons, pushing the open shirt from Sherlock's shoulders and throwing it to the floor.

“You now...” Sherlock said against John's lips, “I want to feel your skin on mine.”

John retreated and pulled off his shirt, barely noticing the creak of fabric as he almost scattered the buttons. His trousers were distended obviously, and John undid the button in order to give his stiff prick more space as he pushed Sherlock down on the bed, undoing the other man's trousers and pulling them down before kicking his own off.

“I need to take my socks off,” Sherlock whispered, sitting up and pulling off the socks with a blush before shuffling back on the bed, “I don't have – I don't have condoms. I have lube, though,” he admitted as he fished around in his top drawer, leaving the bottle on the top.

“I want to taste you first,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock's spasming abs before grabbing a pillow and putting it under his knees on the floor. Sherlock looked down in entranced stillness as John ran his hands up and down the soft skin of Sherlock's thighs.

Sherlock seemed to be stunned into silence as his fingers twitched at his side, watching as John carefully bent forward and took the tip of Sherlock's cock into his mouth. The taste of earthy precome wasn't pleasant, but John swallowed it down quickly as he shuffled forward and rolled his tongue along the underside of Sherlock's cock, teasing the thick vein underneath. Sherlock's low moan of pleasure seemed to thrum around the bedroom and John flicked his eyes up with a smile, now bobbing his head to take a little more of the flushed shaft into his mouth.

Despite having never done this before, John had been the recipient of enough blow-jobs to get the gist of it, and he rocked and sucked as best he could, only gagging when Sherlock's cock brushed his soft palate.

“John...” Sherlock whispered, clearly overcome, “John...”

Lifting a hand to take Sherlock's own, John entwined their fingers and gave a gentle squeeze as he continued to suck and lick at the tight skin.

“Stop stop stop,” Sherlock repeated quickly, blinking and swallowing, “It's too – it's too much.”

John gave a final kiss to Sherlock's cock and shuffled backwards, moving from the pillow on the floor he climbed onto the bed and guided Sherlock back gently. Sherlock was obviously nervous - his body tense but his face open - as he reached towards John for another tender kiss.

“I'll need to open you up,” John whispered, “It might be overwhelming. If you need me to pause...”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes with a soft kiss to John's cheek.

John smiled as he reached for the lube and flipped open the cap. Shuffling between Sherlock's thighs, John poured some of the gel onto his fingers and carefully began to slip his fingers between Sherlock's buttocks, acclimatising him to the feeling without pushing too far.

After a few minutes of soft touches, John began to slowly push his finger inside Sherlock's tight entrance, feeling him squeezing down on John's thicker digits.

“Relax,” John whispered, his other hand moving to run up and down Sherlock's thigh, “It'll be easier.”

“I – I'm not used to it,” Sherlock blushed, his cheeks a pretty pink, “Your fingers are much bigger than mine. It's – odd.”

John nodded in understanding, slowing his movements until Sherlock had loosened enough to push through the inner muscles. The moment was rewarded by a deep and low groan from Sherlock whilst John pressed his thumb to stimulate Sherlock's prostate from the outside.

Sherlock arched his back in pleasure before pulling John down to kiss him hard, “Now. More. Please,” Sherlock rambled nonsensically, causing John to smile with just a hint of smugness.

“Not quite yet,” John negated kindly before removing his one finger in order to get two fingers inside him. Sherlock moaned again, encouraged by the stretch, as his nails dug into John’s arms. Once Sherlock was used to the feeling, John moved to add one more finger, and Sherlock stopped him.

“No, you now,” he demanded.

“It really would be easiest and best if you let me get another finger in first.”

“I’m prepared enough so that you won’t tear me open, but I want to  _ feel  _ you,” Sherlock admitted quietly, still a bit shy about expressing his desires explicitly.

John lowered his chin to his chest and groaned at the imagery; he could practically feel how tight Sherlock would be already, prepared as minimally as he was. Sherlock wasn’t wrong, of course: he was certainly prepared enough to not be grievously injured.

“Are you sure? I really don’t want to hurt you,” he asked, looking the younger man in the eye.

Sherlock smiled seductively, “A little pain hasn’t ever bothered me, doctor.”

John’s eyes darkened a little further, “Oh, you are a bad man,” he practically growled as he almost unconsciously moved himself into position to take him.

Sherlock helpfully -  _ smugly  _ \- handed him the bottle of lube again, “And yet here you are.”

John grabbed the lube and sat back a bit to be able to slick up his cock. He threw the bottle aside and grabbed a pillow to place it under Sherlock’s hips before looming above him, foreheads touching.

“Are you ready for me?” John whispered, concern permeating through the lust.

Sherlock couldn’t answer with words, merely nodded as he wrapped his hands around John’s strong biceps to anchor himself.

John tilted his pelvis forward, rubbing the head of his cock up and down Sherlock's crease, occasionally catching on Sherlock's opened hole but never entering due to the awkward angle. 

The movements were sloppy and uncoordinated as John rocked his hips, finally managing to push the tip of his cock inside to the corona. Sherlock and John both moaned, stilling as they acclimated to the feelings - John taking deep breaths in an attempt to stop himself coming prematurely, and Sherlock breathing hard whilst thinking  _ open, open, open  _ to his muscles, not wanting to clamp down too hard.

“Fuck,” John moaned, lips touching Sherlock's sweaty skin as he spoke, “God, this is – you feel so good.”

“Move,” Sherlock begged, eyes lidded with pleasure, “Please?”

John nodded as he rolled his hips again, slowly feeding his cock into Sherlock's body an inch at a time. Sherlock was hot and tight, gripping at John's prick with a fluttering of muscles, and John bit his lip harshly as he finally managed to fully sheath himself into his lover.

“Oh god,” Sherlock panted, left hand still around John's bicep whilst the other moved to cup and curl around his own genitals. John could feel the wet, slippery precome between their bodies and Sherlock's cock seemed painfully hard against his skin.

“Jesus, you feel amazing,” John whispered, pulling out slightly and pushing back in, creating a steady rhythm of short, gentle strokes whilst his lips sought Sherlock's own, pulling him in for a deep, tender kiss.

“John...” Sherlock moaned, his fingers biting deeper into John's flesh, “John...”

“Shhhh, it's alright,” John replied, his forehead resting against Sherlock's intimately as he moved, their eyes never straying from one another despite the awkward position, “I've got you.”

“John...” Sherlock whined, circling his hips, “It's so much…it feels so – so –“

John understood entirely what Sherlock was saying. The detective was feeling overwhelmed by the pleasure and the unusual sensations. He needed to feel grounded so as not to be panicked by the newness of the situation.

Moving his hand to take Sherlock's away from his bicep, John entwined their fingers together beside Sherlock's head, keeping a tight hold as he began broadening his strokes, making them deeper and slightly harder whilst also angling his body to press against Sherlock's prostate. He knew he had found it when Sherlock cried out, his stomach muscles fluttering wildly and the younger man bucked up, almost headbutting John.

“Just there?” John teased kindly, focussing his attention on the small nub of pleasure as he thrust, hitting the spot on every other stroke. Sherlock was making a steady stream of sounds now, small whines and whimpers as his hand cupped and squeezed his red-tipped prick, now leaking profusely and letting steams of precome run down his abdomen to the bed below.

“Yes,” John groaned, seeing Sherlock's intense reactions was pushing him closer to his climax and he knew it wouldn't be long until he came, “Sherlock…Sherlock, I – it feels too good…I won't last,” he whispered bashfully.

“John...” Sherlock moaned, his voice deeper than John had ever heard, his pupils almost fully black with arousal and his cheeks flushed a deep pink which travelled down his neck and chest, 

“John…I'm close, you're – you're going to make me ejaculate.”

“Oh shit…oh fuck,” John gasped, the innocence of Sherlock's statement pushing him over the edge with a loud groan and a squeeze of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock must have felt the twitching of John's throbbing cock as it spilled hotly inside him, or perhaps it was the final solid press against his prostate, but whichever it was, Sherlock came spectacularly. Hot pulses of semen shot up his chest and stomach, almost reaching his chin as he grunted and shuddered, his stomach muscles locking as his eyes rolled back from the intensity of his orgasm.

John could only watch, gritting his teeth as Sherlock's tightness clamped down on him. Over sensitivity made John feel like every nerve was aching, but he didn't move as he let Sherlock ride out his orgasm which seemed to go on a long time until finally Sherlock fell back onto the bed with a gasp of breath.

“Are you alright?” John asked, peppering Sherlock's face with small kisses. His heart clenched when he noticed the tears leaking from the corners of Sherlock's eyes, “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“No,” Sherlock sniffed, wiping his semen-covered hand on the bedding before wiping at his face angrily, feeling ridiculous, “It's just --” he stilled, turning away from John.

“What? Tell me,” John said as he carefully pulled his softening cock from Sherlock's body and checking secretly for bleeding. Thankfully Sherlock seemed fine, just slightly pink around his hole and perineum.

“It's…foolish,” Sherlock sniffed again, allowing himself to be pulled into John's arms for a deep hug despite the sticky semen between them, “I feel ridiculous even saying it.”

“Then whisper,” John replied, kissing Sherlock's head, “Tell me what's the matter?”

“I didn't know it was like that...” Sherlock admitted sadly, “I didn't know it was that good. That pleasurable…I didn't know that two people could feel so --”

“Connected,” John answered for him, wiping away the tear which dripped from Sherlock's cheek.

“You've made me sentimental,” Sherlock scoffed, but laid his hand on John's hip, stroking patterns into the skin.

“There could be worse things to be,” John laughed, kissing him, “You're a sticky mess.”

“I think you'll find we're  _ both _ sticky messes,” Sherlock huffed, raising an eyebrow.

“Shower?” John asked, kissing Sherlock's forehead gently.

“Once my legs work, yes,” Sherlock hummed, relaxing into his lover’s arms.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four were frozen in time until John spoke up again, clearing his throat first, “Well, this is hardly how I had planned it.”
> 
> “Did you just ask for my hand by proposing to my father?” Sherlock asked, still with a vague look of being offline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end! Thank you to everyone who read, commented and gave us kudos and love. 
> 
> Both me and Goddess adore you.

_ A few months later… _

There was the sound of heavy footsteps heading towards the kitchen where Sherlock, John, and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat picking at their breakfasts.

“Mother,” Mycroft intoned sternly as he entered his parents’ kitchen, “what have I told you two about leaving sexual aids in my side drawer?”

“Darling,” Mrs. Holmes placated sweetly, utterly unfazed by her eldest’s outburst, “you know we’d just like for you and Gregory to be prepared should the mood strike you while you’re here.”

“So you left us  _ two boxes  _ of condoms? Precisely how often do you expect the urge to strike us in your home?” He asked with a disbelieving tone.

As Mr. and Mrs. Holmes looked confused, John smiled as he spoke up, “Oh no, the second box was from us,” he told him cheerily, reaching his right hand over to grasp Sherlock’s.

“We don’t use them,” Sherlock added for effect, “so we gave you the box from our room, as well.”

Before Mycroft could respond, however, Greg finally joined the group, “Myc, don’t make such a fuss; it’s Christmas,” he said lightly, placing his arm around Mycroft’s waist before placing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“And besides, I don’t know why you’re complaining: you clearly put them to use,” Sherlock scoffed.

Both Mycroft and Greg went red in the face, though Greg also sported a smug expression, use to the antics of the Holmes clan by now.

“Honestly, no sense of class or etiquette,” Mycroft mumbled before turning abruptly and going back upstairs.

Greg met John’s eyes, performing an overly dramatic sigh and eye roll before smiling and turning to follow his lover. There was a lot of placating to do.

“Sherlock, help me with the dishes, will you?” Mrs. Holmes asked before standing from the table.

His parents’ house was the only place John ever witnessed Sherlock help without having to get in a fight about it first. Oh, he clearly still doesn’t  _ enjoy  _ helping, but he knows better than to argue with his mother.

As they began to clear the table, John turned to Sherlock’s father, “Mr. Holmes, how about you show me that photo album you were mentioning yesterday.”

Mr. Holmes’ face lit up as he nodded, pushing away from the table, “Of course!”

John sat on the sofa staring out the window at the falling snow until Mr. Holmes sat beside him with Sherlock’s album; a different one from their first visit to the house all those months ago.

They laughed at tiny little Sherlock, his shock of curly hair a mess. A teenage Sherlock hiding behind books or glaring at the camera. Sherlock, standing next to his science project, a certificate from Mr. Ellis held proudly in his hands.

Mr. Holmes told him countless stories that filled John’s heart more and more with adoration and love for his partner. The love of his life.

As they came to the last picture in the album, John couldn’t help but smile fondly. It was the picture taken before they left for the reunion: John leaning up to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. His stomach flipped and he cleared his throat, looking around the room quickly to make sure they were still alone, before turning his body further towards the other man.

“Mr. Holmes…” John started haltingly, “I wanted to ask you something.”

The older man looked up from the picture, smile fading as he saw John’s face, “What is it, my boy?”

“I was wondering...if you would mind terribly...if I were to ask Sherlock to marry me,” he was finally able to stammer out.

John’s heart was racing as they sat in silence after the request, Mr. Holmes appearing to have gone offline like Sherlock sometimes does when John catches him off guard. But then Mr. Holmes’ eyes teared up as a smile bloomed on to his face.

“You really want to?” The older man sounded like they never thought they’d see the day someone would actually want to marry their youngest. It made John a bit angry on Sherlock’s behalf.

“Of course I do,” John insisted intensely, eyes alight with determination, “your son is the most amazing man I’ve ever met. He is brilliant, and thoughtful in his own way, and he does care even though he pretends not to, and he does disgusting experiments and leaves body parts in the fridge or the bathtub and he’s  _ absolutely mad _ ...but he is my madman. I can’t think of any person I would rather spend the rest of my life with.”

There was a gasping sob from behind him, and John turned slowly, fearing who he would find standing there. His fears were confirmed as he passed over Mrs. Holmes - her hand over her mouth - to lock eyes with a shocked Sherlock.

The four were frozen in time until John spoke up again, clearing his throat first, “Well, this is hardly how I had planned it.”

“Did you just ask for my hand by proposing to my father?” Sherlock asked, still with a vague look of being offline.

“To be fair, I had a whole other speech planned for you. That one just sort of...happened,” John was trying to keep it light, but on the inside he was terrified of how this was all going to turn out. Would Sherlock refuse him because it all got botched up? Would he have even said yes if asked in the previously, carefully prepared way?

“So you’re serious then? You’ve thought about it?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course I’m serious,” he wanted to call him a daft git, but it wasn’t quite the right time for jokes, “Would you like me to do your speech now, or...?”

“No, that hardly seems necessary; the first was sufficient.”

John stood from the couch and Mrs. Holmes moved to take his vacated seat. John walked towards the other man, still uncertain about how this would all shake out, “So? What do you think?”

“I think you’ve completely lost it and have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he started with a shake of his head, but then reached out and took both of John’s hands in his with a smile, “but I’m going to say ‘yes’ before you come to your senses and change your mind.”

John’s smile was blinding as he shook his head playfully, “Impossible: I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life.”

John let go of Sherlock’s hands to guide the taller man’s face down to his, their bodies pulling flush together. Through their self-indulgent haze they heard Mycroft ask, “What did we miss?” but they chose to ignore it in favour of kissing each other.

**Author's Note:**

> We'd love it if you took a moment to let us know what you think of any of the chapters as they go up, via comments, kudos, or constructive criticism.
> 
> Thanks, and we hope to see you back for the rest of it!
> 
> You can follow KittieHill on [Tumblr](http://kittiekatthings.tumblr.com/) for some entertaining posts.
> 
> Follow Goddess_of_the_Night on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goddess-of-the-night04) for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


End file.
